


Let's Make The Most of this Beautiful Day (Since We're Together We Might As Well)

by br0ken_hands, jpnadia



Series: A Beautiful Day for a Neighbor (4gfs) [1]
Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: 101 Ways to Hurt Coronabeth Tridentarius, 4gfs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff, Found Family, Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character - Dog - Freeform, Original Character - Goat - Freeform, Roommates, Slow Burn, oh god they were roommates, the smut is skippable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 124,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br0ken_hands/pseuds/br0ken_hands, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpnadia/pseuds/jpnadia
Summary: “Harrow?” Gideon does a double-take and grips on to the nearest solid object for support. The keys on the entryway table give a forlorn jingle at the impact. “Harrowhark Nonagesimus?”The wraith stops dead partway down the stairs with her hand on the bannister. “Griddle?” (“Griddle?” asks Cam, incredulously, which is about how Gideon feels about that nickname, too.)Palamedes gives them a very narrow look. “Harrow, my undergraduate study partner, Camilla Hect. And you’re Gideon Nav, I presume? I’ve heard about you; it’s a pleasure to meet. I take it you already know my roommate, Harrowhark Nonagesimus?”Threebest friendsunsuitable roommate pairs buy adjoining properties and rip down the fences and have a shared garden. There is a goat.This fic does not contain spoilers for Harrow the Ninth.
Relationships: Camilla Hect/Coronabeth Tridentarius, Camilla Hect/Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Coronabeth Tridentarius, Camilla Hect/Palamedes Sextus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Series: A Beautiful Day for a Neighbor (4gfs) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928857
Comments: 408
Kudos: 380





	1. Moving In

**Author's Note:**

> Ideally, updates on Sundays.
> 
> Based, _extremely_ loosely, on this AITA post: https://www.reddit.com/r/AmItheAsshole/comments/eyqwy8/aita_for_putting_my_single_best_friends_before_my/
> 
> Title from "Won't You Be My Neighbor" by Fred Rogers.

"Stop gawking, Nav," says Cam as they pull up to the house. It still has the SOLD sign in front of it. 

Gideon keeps craning her head: at the banks of windows, the actual turret, the massive garage Cam plans to convert into a home gym. She's seen the pictures on Cam's phone, of course, but mostly she's moving in sight-unseen.

She's a little more than two years into her career as a physiotherapist and her budget is still feeling the effects of some of the (good, bad, and necessary) decisions she made in college. Cam's been a godsend with coaching her out of credit card debt. She's made good progress; now she just has a small mountain of student loans to pay off. Cam’s a lawyer-- though she also has debt, she’s been out of school for longer than Gideon has been, and she also has better skills to deal with money.

To help her out, Cam is going to let her pay some of her rent in carpentry. It doesn't seem fair, because Gideon loves building shit and is inclined to want to pull her own weight. Plus, she gets to live with her best friend in a house that's twenty times larger than the shitty apartment she’s moving out of. She can’t wait to buy herself a real fucking bed that isn’t a futon.

Honestly, Cam is probably the best thing that has ever happened to Gideon in her life, from that very first day that the lawyer walked into Gideon's new job on crutches with a busted ankle. Gideon had helped her get the range of motion back, but it was really Cam who got Gideon back on her feet.

And now they're standing in front of this beautiful house they're going to live in together, all of their things combined in the back of a rented moving van. (Gideon knows how it looks, but it's not like that between her and Cam, even if she's definitely thought about it. Cam is phenomenally hot, but she's also laser-focused on her career and never gets attached to the men and women she fucks. Gideon respects that.)

Gideon is all ready to start unloading, but Cam pulls her to the house next door. "Come on, Palamedes is waiting."

Gideon has heard a lot about Palamedes Sextus from Cam, but she's never actually met the man. She knows he was instrumental in uniting Cam with the house, and she knows Cam has known him since they were both nerds in college together. 

She lets Cam ring the doorbell and waits, picking shapes out of the puffy white clouds in the blue sky above her.

The door opens on the tallest, skinniest human being Gideon has ever seen in her life. He’s made of severe angles and sharp lines, a polygon in human form. His lanky arms stretch past the cuff of his shirt, leaving bony wrists exposed to the crisp fall air when he lifts a hand to push his glasses back up his angular nose, only to have them slide back down again. There’s a slight startled look in his eyes that lasts long enough Gideon’s starting to think isn’t so much a product of the events unfolding so much as it’s his permanent expression. He actually hugs Cam, pressing just a little closer and holding just a little bit longer than Cam’s usual quick grab. Well, shit. That’s interesting.

Gideon is saved from having to think about this by the entrance of Palamedes’s roommate from upstairs. A small, slight woman dressed in black, black, and more black descends the stairs. The lighting makes her cheekbones cut as sharply as Palamedes’s. Her narrow, pointed nose turns up in disdain, and shadows wreath dark, joyless eyes.

“Harrow?” Gideon does a double-take and grips on to the nearest solid object for support. The keys on the entryway table give a forlorn jingle at the impact. “Harrowhark Nonagesimus?”

The wraith stops dead partway down the stairs with her hand on the bannister. “Griddle?” (“ _Griddle_?” asks Cam, incredulously, which is about how Gideon feels about that nickname, too.)

Palamedes gives them a very narrow look. “Harrow, my undergraduate study partner, Camilla Hect. And you’re Gideon Nav, I presume? I’ve heard about you; it’s a pleasure to meet. I take it you already know my roommate, Harrowhark Nonagesimus?”

Gideon doesn’t know why Palamedes doesn’t say “friend” like a normal person, but then again, Palamedes is a person who has apparently voluntarily chosen to live with _Harrowhark Nonagesimus_. Maybe ‘undergraduate study partner’ is the language of love in the Sextus-Nonagesimus household. What an appalling thought.

Some nicety seems necessary, mostly for Cam’s sake. “Well, hell. Small world.” She offers her hand to shake. Palamedes takes it. Harrow does not.

Gideon nods stiffly and puts her hands back in her pockets, looking away. She can feel Harrow’s eyes on her, little beady things boring into the side of her skull. She almost goes to itch it. 

“We really need to get the truck unloaded,” says Cam, trying to break the tension.

“We’ll help,” says Palamedes immediately. “We offered. I’m sure it’s not a problem.”

Harrow makes a face. It sends Gideon straight back to high school so hard she can taste industrial tater tots from the school lunch on the back of her tongue. But Harrow does not dispute her roommate’s invitation.

* * *

“Did you really move in next to your fuck buddy?” Gideon asks as they crest the stairs with Cam’s wardrobe. It’s a heavy thing, but with two people they make it work. They’ve assigned Palamedes and Harrow to alphabetize Cam’s books after a close call with a nightstand. Gideon has packed all her boxes so someone with her strength could lift them. She’s only a little sorry she didn’t also take the lifting capacity of actual stick figures into account. This definitely counts as today’s workout. Maybe tomorrow’s, too.

“It’s not like that,” says Cam. She lowers the wardrobe to the floor of the landing. “We’ve been friends since undergrad.”

“But you are fucking him.” Gideon plants her elbow on the wardrobe and thins her mouth.

Cam rolls her eyes. “Is that really the point?”

“Kind of, yeah,” says Gideon. “You _bought a house_ next to him.”

Cam’s love life shouldn’t matter to Gideon, but if it’s going to mess up her living situation, it does anyway. In lieu of further discussion, Cam goes to lift the wardrobe again. Bound by the shackles of friendship, Gideon helps her.

For her own part, Gideon has two hands and an extensive collection of literature. It’s really none of her business. 

They park the wardrobe on the inside wall of Cam’s new bedroom. Gideon rolls her shoulders back and goes down for another box.

* * *

A few trips later, she gets an eyeful of their _other_ neighbors. This is a much more pleasant surprise. She’s still got miles of unpacking to go, but this is the last box she needs to go to sleep tonight. Cam may complain about the boxes littering the foyer, but Gideon will cope with that later.

Her new room is great. It’s smaller than Cam’s, but still bigger than her old one, with a window that has a view of the backyard, full of trees and a decrepit old shack that Cam has promised her for her woodworking. It looks like it’s about to fall over, so it’s a good thing Gideon’s handy.

It’s gotten unseasonably hot as the day’s worn on, and she’s sweating. She has no idea if this house even has AC-- and if it doesn’t, she’s coped with that before. For now, she opens the window.

There’s an anaemic breeze blowing outside, rustling coming from the leaves. Gideon pushes up the screen, too, so she can stick her head out the window and feel the wind in her hair. Sweat drips off her brow and onto the section of back porch roof directly beneath her window. The fresh air is magnificent.

Also magnificent: the neighbors have a pool. The sunlight reflecting off it blinds her-- she whips her sunglasses out of her pocket and jams them onto her nose-- and once her eyes stop stinging, she can see the occupant of the pool, moving in the distance. She can’t see nearly as well as she would like, because what she _can_ see is mostly long limbs and lush curves covered by the scant hint of a bikini.

Gideon decides now is a perfect time to move her power tools out to the shed and heads downstairs. She knows how lifting heavy things makes her biceps look. It's not a crime, it's a public service. And if the swimmer next door happens to appreciate it, so much the better.

She only has one load of power tools left and is beginning to make plans to move utterly heavy and inappropriate things out to the shed after that’s done when the swimmer heaves herself out of the water. Gideon’s lucky she’s not carrying anything, because as it is, she’s only carrying her water bottle, and she drops it. 

By the time she recovers the rolling bottle, there are wet footsteps leading up from the pool to the chaise, and laid out on top of it, wide-brimmed sun hat and sunglasses on, is the woman. She looks like she’s been lifted straight out of one of Gideon’s less than safe-for-work magazines. Even when wet, her golden hair falls in perfect tresses over smooth, sloping shoulders, and even from here, Gideon can make out flawless collarbones. And that’s to say nothing of the bathing suit, which Gideon is pointedly not looking at, trying to salvage the last scraps of her chivalry.

It’s practically Naughty Neighbors IV: Limited Edition come to life.

Another woman comes into view. Paler and less curvy than the first, but they look similar enough that Gideon might hazard a guess that they’re sisters. Maybe even twins. Words are exchanged and the babe in the bathing suit flashes the other a brilliant smile. Gideon can’t help the little lift of her own lips.

Right, that’s enough watching. Gideon turns back to go grab the last box of power tools, only to be spooked by a body lurking just inside the doors. Cam is standing there silently with a box in her arms, watching her make a fool out of herself. Gideon hadn’t even noticed Cam come up. There’s a horribly awkward moment where Gideon puts down her water bottle and hefts a box as proof of her bona fides. She clears her throat and goes for nonchalant. 

“Hot damn.” Gideon nudges Cam with an elbow because her hands are full of the box labeled _belt sander_. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Cam just nods, attention drawn by the two figures just visible over the fence.

Gideon was hoping for a little more by way of response. “Way better-looking than Harrow, am I right?”

Cam’s lips press into a thin line and she swallows, throat bobbing ever so slightly. “Nav, you’re being an ass.” 

Gideon nods slowly, not arguing that point. She crosses the lawn, stows the belt sander in its new home and returns to the back porch, where Cam is waiting for her.

When it becomes clear that Cam isn’t inclined to move just yet, nor is she about to reprimand Gideon for getting an eyeful of the new neighbors on their first day in, Gideon turns back and looks a little more.

Then, like a particularly unwelcome apparition, Harrow materializes out of the house. She slams a plastic deck chair onto the back porch with little grace and even less coordination. “Put your tongue back in your mouth, Nav,” she says, sounding aggrieved. “Those are the Tridentarius twins. Touch them if you want your hand removed at the wrist.”

Gideon wiggles her fingers. She _likes_ her hands. They’re useful-- in her job, right before she falls asleep, and while she might not have the extensive Yelp page of reviews Cam does, she hasn’t left a lover unsatisfied since she was a freshman in college.

But, honestly, who does Harrow think she is? Just because the gorgeous blondes shot down the goth gremlin doesn't mean Gideon can't make a pass, if the opportunity presents.

* * *

Coronabeth cracks an eye open when she hears the back door open next door. She saw the moving van, and she wants to know who bought the house from the weird little old man who used to live there. (Ianthe says it doesn’t matter who they are; if they were appropriate society for a Tridentarius, they’d know them already. Corona is curious anyway.)

A bulky redhead with a poorly-maintained undercut walks from the eyesore of a shed that has been crumbling in the neighbor’s backyard for as long as Corona has lived there. She ascends the steps onto the back porch and leans on the railing, looking out over the back yard. She makes up for her bad hair with the best arm muscles Coronabeth has ever seen in person, shown off in a tank top with a logo Corona can’t read without giving away that she’s looking. Nevertheless, her interest is piqued.

A second figure joins her new neighbor on the back porch. This neighbor is even hotter, compact curves in well-loved athleisure with glossy dark hair cut to her chin. (Once, when she was in middle school, Corona tried that haircut. It went entirely to frizz, even on the least humid days. Turns out it’s best if Corona keeps her hair long.)

Bob Haircut stands close enough to the redhead that their hips bump. A couple, then. Corona can’t help the pang of disappointment that nips at her stomach. Not that there was any real chance that she’d fall in love with a neighbor-- but it was a fun dream. But these two seem close, the way they lean into each other’s spaces and laugh. Even she and Ianthe aren’t that close. But-- maybe-- the two of them would want to add a third to spice up their bed play. Corona’s no catch, but she does have fantastic tits, and she’s absolutely willing to use them if it means she gets to play with those two.

A rustle comes from the deck chair next to her. Ianthe is stirring. She must have looked too long, thought too loudly, when she’s not supposed to be interested at all. She’s given herself away.

“Honey,” says Ianthe, in her gentle tone. “Women like that want more than surface deep.”

Coronabeth rolls her eyes theatrically, for Ianthe’s benefit. She was only looking.

“You’ll only hurt yourself,” Ianthe goes on. “Wanting people who will never respect you.”

“I’m going to go inside,” says Coronabeth abruptly.

“That’s for the best,” says Ianthe.

Corona leaves her cover-up draped over the deck chair. She knows exactly how she looks in a bikini, and even if she can’t have her gorgeous new neighbors, she can at least repay them for her own unrepentant ogling.

Besides, if she’s lucky, she can hide in her room and watch them for just a little bit longer.

* * *

“Well, if that’s that...” Palamedes says, looking a little sweaty and out of breath despite only having moved two boxes, and the lightest ones at that, “I think we deserve some rest and food. Perhaps I’ll call for pizza?”

Gideon looks to Cam, but her face is unreadable. Very well, Gideon can make this decision with her stomach.

“Sounds good.”

They’ve gotten the kitchen table set up, and Cam has actual plates somewhere, but Gideon didn’t manage to unearth them in the sea of boxes. They end up back at the Sextus-Nonagesimus house since it’s fully furnished and they won’t have to dodge stacks of cardboard. Palamedes’s plates look like they haven’t been used in several months and Gideon’s a little afraid to look into their pantry, but then the pizza arrives, and that’s really all that matters to her.

It’s a terribly awkward affair. Harrow is made of quills the entire time, icy when it comes to interaction. Gideon tries conversation with Harrow no less and no more than three times before she simply gives up. Harrow excuses herself minutes later, leaving a slice of pizza that looks like a very small rat with a very small appetite went to have a nibble on it.

Gideon sighs to herself and attempts to chat with Palamedes next, which fares better than with Harrow but not by much. He’s just as hard, if not more, to read as Cam, expressions alternating between the extremes of indecipherable and imperceptible. She knows it’s a doomed venture when the conversation becomes less conversational and more Cam and Palamedes having dialogue in a wordless series of glances. Gideon isn’t surprised either when they disappear, leaving her with the last slice of pizza. 

It’s a very empty kitchen that is simultaneously too big and too small.

Gideon never runs unless she has to, but it suddenly seems like a really good time to jog around her new neighborhood.

* * *

Cam returns on Gideon’s seventh lazy lap, loose around the elbows like she’s just had a good workout. Gideon thinks she has a feel for the neighborhood now, at least good enough that she won’t get lost the next time she decides to wander.

Cam calls out from the front porch, where the light is attracting moths. “Coming in?”

Gideon lopes over, easy and relaxed. “Now I am.”

Cam massages her temples. “We left the back door unlocked.”

Too many lockless doors across the fractured years of her youth have taught Gideon the power of holding a key. Since coming into adulthood, she has always locked every door in her power to lock. She had not in fact known that.

“Oh my god, you’re hopeless." Cam tosses a small jangling bundle that Gideon catches in the center of her chest. It feels solid in her hands, an assuring thing. If moving her belongings into a new house hadn’t settled the reality of this new chapter, holding the keys to the doors certainly does. "Here’s your key, _go shower_.” 

It goes on her lanyard and back in her pocket, the webbing dangling out. Cam gives it a tug when Gideon walks into the house with a fond raised eyebrow and Gideon hipchecks her playfully in lieu of a response.

The window in her bedroom overlooks the backyard and Gideon spends a moment looking, fresh change of clothes half-collected in her arms. She should grow something here. There’s enough space for a few raised beds beside the shed. It would be good to start a new chapter with new life. 

She heads to the shower and lets the cold water sluice off her body. Thoughts of the day run through her head. Palamedes and Harrowhark. The hot neighbors. Terrible revelations about Cam’s love life. Awkward pizza and the run. Thoughts about what she’s leaving behind, about what she’s gaining, both expected and unexpected.

The house makes weird noises in the wind, and Gideon’s sheets smell unfortunately like the dryer sheets she packed in with them after doing her last load ever at a laundromat. Still, they’re crisp when Gideon slides under them, the house dark, tiredness weighing at her eyelids.

So their first day in their new house isn’t an unmitigated success. Luckily, the physical exertion takes care of all the little niggling worries that have come up now that the idea has met reality. Gideon passes out.


	2. The Problem With Harrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus update on a Wednesday! We have vague plans to get this done by August 4, when Harrow the Ninth comes out. Please feel free to wish us luck.
> 
> Rating is bumping up for an off-color joke, but there's more coming later. 
> 
> (JP admits she's predictable.)

Gideon is ridiculously happy with her power tools. She brings the entire backyard to life.

Cam sits on the porch, content to watch her friend’s boundless enthusiasm from a safe vantage point while Gideon hauls and saws and drills. She’s already fixed up the backyard shed, even though they’ve only been moved in a couple of weeks. (“Nothing wrong with the bones,” Gideon had told her from the roof when Cam had expressed concern.) With a few shingles, some fresh siding, and a fresh coat of paint, Gideon has lifted the tone of the entire backyard.

It’s also been long enough that the good behavior has worn off. For example-- it turns out that Gideon has the weirdest dish habits that Cam has ever seen. She washes them with _hand soap_ , for one thing. 

Someday-- when she _hasn’t_ just put down a 20% deposit on a house-- she’s going to get a dishwasher installed because watching Gideon clean the kitchen makes something in Cam’s elbows shrivel in a recoil reaction.

She asked where Gideon learned to do dishes, and Gideon had shrugged and started talking about how much yard space she was allowed to use for tomatoes. Cam’s not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt when she finds things Gideon doesn’t want to talk to her about, but it's better than a roommate who stirs up drama for the sake of. Cam's had a few like that over the years.

Meanwhile, Cam loves living with Gideon-- despite her weird kitchen habits, she’s tidy, and she never demands anything Cam isn’t willing to give. It helps that they like each other, that Gideon already knows her habit of picking up strangers in bars and doesn’t judge her for it, that Gideon knows how to quietly co-exist with her in the evening when Cam is too tired to do much more than throw her court heels in the corner and flop over onto the sofa.

That, and Gideon’s tomato enthusiasm is a positive delight.

At first, it seems as if it’s just another morning where Cam sips away at her coffee while Gideon gets started on yet another backyard project. Raised beds this time, for the tomatoes she’s been talking about with such excitement. It feels lovely and domestic, a picture-perfect moment, so she does a double-take when someone new enters their tableau. It surprises her when Harrowhark sidles up to the fence on Palamedes's side, even more so when Harrow doesn’t just turn her nose up and leave.

"Nav," says Harrowhark. "What _are_ you doing?" She packs more derision into each syllable than Cam has ever heard from opposing counsel. Cam might even be impressed if it weren't directed at her friend.

"Building raised beds." Gideon picks up her shovel, spears it into the dirt, and leans on it. "You grow things in them."

Harrow rolls her eyes. "Obviously. Why?"

Gideon narrows her eyes. "Because, penumbral lady, _I_ do not kill every living being I come in contact with." 

"I have touched you at least twice in our lives," says Harrowhark, "not counting anything that happened in gym class. And yet, lamentably, you remain alive."

"I thought I might die," says Gideon, in mock contemplation. "But I didn't want to give you the satisfaction."

Cam patently does not understand any of this. It would be so much easier for Harrowhark to go inside and just leave Gideon alone. Admittedly, it would be a little harder for Gideon to ignore their neighbor, but Cam has seen her do it before, and with people who aren't transparently spoiling for a fight.

She thinks about asking questions, but she's worried Gideon might answer these ones. She'd much rather pretend that none of this animosity exists.

She's saved from contemplation by the arrival of their _other_ neighbor-- one of the twins, the curvy one. She's dressed for fall, a red plaid flannel buttoned halfway up over a low-cut white shell. It does absolutely nothing to disguise her magnificent bosom, which is probably the point. Her jeans hug the lush curves of her thighs, delicate gold belt glinting in the sun and drawing attention to hips that Cam would not be opposed to grabbing, if they were ever to have a sex kind of relationship. 

She lets herself through the rusted gate in the fence-- it lets out a tremendous creak-- and approaches the porch. As she moves, she keeps playing with her hair-- a glossy mass of blonde curls that fall intermittently over collarbones that make Cam's mouth water.

"I hope now is a good time," she calls, as if she's never been turned down in her life. Given that she looks like that, that just might be true.

Cam sets aside her empty coffee mug. If anyone's going to introduce them, it should be her. Gideon has sawdust and dirt up to her elbows.

She offers her hand. "Camilla Hect."

"Coronabeth Tridentarius." Rather than shaking, the other woman lifts Cam's hand up to vivid red lips and kisses Cam's knuckles. Her lipstick matches her flannel.

It's overdone, gaudy. Inappropriate. And it still hits Cam with all the force of a kick in the gut.

Luckily, Cam has to face attractive women all the time in court. Feigning impassiveness is an art and she’s a master of it. She lifts her chin to avoid letting on how badly she's affected, just says "Charmed," with the exact right amount of irony calculated and measured to the microgram.

"And your companion?" Coronabeth’s voice has gone low and throaty-- a tone that gives them both plausible deniability if Cam’s not interested.

"My roommate, Gideon Nav. She's building raised beds." It’s perilously close to babbling. She has no idea why she needs Coronabeth to know Gideon is her roommate and not her lover or her wife or even her friend with benefits. (She knows exactly why she wants Coronabeth to know that Cam is technically single, two of the chief reasons looming large just below her line of sight. God, Coronabeth is _tall_.)

Palamedes arrives in a flurry of motion, sharp angles of his cheekbones indecorously close to Cam’s face. It shatters the iridescent soap bubble that surrounds Cam and Coronabeth, and she can’t help but mourn its loss. "Cam! Have you seen Harrow?"

He's flapping around her in a very Palamedes form of affectionate distress. Cam extends her free hand to try and placate him and he rests his fingertips on her elbow, neither here nor there. His touch flits from shoulder to the small of her back, buzzing like a fly around a picnic. Unfortunately, Cam likes him too much to slap his hand away.

Coronabeth has withdrawn her hand as if Cam had hidden a small nest of very angry bees in her palm. Cam sighs. "I was under the impression that Harrowhark is an adult who can take care of herself. Anyway, isn't she right over there?"

She points over at the fence and then follows her own gesture with her gaze. It's the wrong order. Harrow is no longer there. The gate between their properties sags open. "Goddammit."

"HARROW!" bellows Gideon, from inside the shed. "I know you're there. Give me back my drill bits!"

In the yard, absolutely nothing moves. Harrow has vanished. Eventually, Palamedes gives up and goes home, reasoning that Harrow will eventually have to sleep. Which he should have done in the first place.

So this is homeownership, muses Cam: one extraordinarily hot neighbor who's out of her league, her aloof sister, one weird and slightly destructive neighbor, and one Palamedes Sextus. 

This is not the adventure she thought she'd signed up for, but it's the one she's got.

* * *

While it takes a bit of convincing from Gideon’s end to get Cam to help her with the raised beds, it takes no such effort from Cam’s side to get Gideon to help set up the power rack in their garage. With the new flooring installed, the space looks under-furnished. Cam doesn’t want to throw away good money on cheap equipment just to fill it up. They’ll get there.

Gideon goes with her to pick up the power rack and the weights Cam ordered, shouldering far more than her share of the heavy lifting. When the contractors are done installing the new flooring, Cam goes to put it together and manages to slice her arm with the packaging nearly immediately. By the time she finds the adhesive bandages, Gideon has most of the beams up already. She straightens up and tosses the wrench to her other hand, beaming, as if there’s no greater joy than spending her Saturday morning doing manual labor for Cam’s benefit. “Can you hold this crossbar?” Gideon asks.

Ruefully, Cam rubs her arm. She holds the crossbar. Gideon wields tools with a fluency Cam envies, although not so much as to spend the time learning how to use them that well.

After they install the rack, they fall into a workout routine, lifting together three days a week, scheduled around Cam’s dance lessons and Gideon’s hockey practices. There’s only one bar, so they have to take weights off for Cam’s sets and put them back on for Gideon’s. Gideon seems almost apologetic about it, like it’s her fault that Cam doesn’t have Gideon’s raw strength. She’s an amazing lifting partner even so: encouraging Cam to push her limits, spotting her in case she misses.

It’s not long after the incident with the raised beds that Cam’s in the garage-turned-gym, her teeth gritted together, determined to finish off the last of her set of squats. 

“Come on, one more. You can do it, let’s go, let’s go.” Gideon says, hands hovering in the periphery of Cam’s vision, ready to catch the bar if Cam goes down.

Cam grunts and pushes the rest of the way up to standing, breathing hard through her nose. She takes the two steps to the rack and lowers it back onto the hooks, slipping out from under it and shaking out her achy limbs.

“Dude, not that it wasn’t awesome, but you’re going real hard,” Gideon says, making her way to the sides to unclip and reload the bar for her own set. “You okay?”

And well, Camilla is... Okay seems too simple a word for it. There’s a lot at play here. A new house, new neighbors. One of whom she’s sleeping with now, and another of whom she would be trying to sleep with if it were a different situation. A goddamn pickle is what this is, and it’s hard enough to sort out one relationship at the moment. “I’m fine.”

Gideon shrugs, picking up her plates. “Alright, you know you can come to me and ask me anything anytime, right?”

Cam switches her set of weights for Gideon’s and counts her in to lift off. Now’s as good a time as any if Gideon’s offering. Though maybe this isn’t quite what she had in mind. “Okay. What’s up with you and Harrow?”

To her credit, Gideon doesn’t miss a step, just adjusts her grip and begins her first squat. “We knew each other in elementary school. Just acquaintances.”

Cam stays with her through the squat and back up, starting to count the reps in her head. “Acquaintances?”

Gideon snorts. “She’s just Harrow.”

Ah yes, the non-answer-- Cam is deeply familiar with those in her line of work. Perhaps there’s more that Gideon’s waiting to say, but several reps later, they’re not any closer to an answer.

“Is she... is she always like that?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Gideon’s form weakens for a moment and Cam’s readying her hands. It takes a moment, but then Gideon’s back to standing, albeit a tiny bit shakier.

Cam keeps her hands under Gideon’s arms, looking nervously at her slightly trembling thighs. “Do you need to stop? Or one more?”

“One more.”

This one, Gideon gets through sounding like a dying mule and with much encouragement from Cam’s end. When she’s back to standing again, Gideon walks the bar back to its hooks and claps her hands off. She bends over, hands on her knees, stretching out her shoulders.

“I saw you talking to Hot Neighbor earlier.”

Cam raises an eyebrow, face impassive. “You can’t call her that. Her name is Coronabeth.” Cam rolls the syllables over her tongue. They taste good in her mouth.

Gideon scoffs. “Why not? She’s hot and you know it. I saw you looking at her tits.”

Cam's face twists. Gideon's got her there and they both know it. She can't suppress the smile, not when she's so fond of Gideon, not even to preserve her dignity. “Perhaps.”

“And the people you bring home?” Gideon stands back up and stretches. Her spine cracks when she twists and she sighs audibly. “Not that I mind them, just... you know, with Palamedes.”

Cam’s wince is only half to do with the cracking. She tries to be polite about bringing people back, but it’s still awkward, despite Gideon saying over and over that she doesn’t mind. “It’s fine, Palamedes and I are just fucking. Nothing more.” Saying it leaves a slight bitter feeling in the back of her throat that Cam tries to swallow down. There. That gut feeling should tell her everything she needs to know about how she should be dealing with Hot Neighbor. 

It’s Gideon’s turn to huff affectionately. She’s suddenly oddly sincere with her next words, gaze earnest. “Careful. We’re the new kids on the block, and I’m not one to start neighborhood drama.”

Cam’s brow furrows deeply and she closes her eyes briefly to ground herself. “It’s nothing. You said it yourself, Coronabeth is hot. That’s it.” 

“So you don’t mind if I make a pass?” 

“Don’t push your luck, Nav.” That’s far too close to an admission that Cam refuses to make, even to herself. “No matter what happens, we still have to live next to her.”

Gideon shrugs and goes to put back her weights, leaving Cam massaging the space between her eyebrows. Somehow what was meant to be fishing about Gideon’s relationship with Harrow turned into a questioning session about her own love life. When did that happen? For all that Gideon likes to pretend she’s a dumb jock, she’s entirely too clever. Cam smiles despite herself. Figures they’d make a good housemates pair.

* * *

Camilla has met Harrow a few times before. She’s not bothered that Palamedes’s roommate only emerges from her room to snarl and retrieve a book before disappearing again, leaving only a slammed door behind her. What shocks her is how Gideon engages.

“Another book, Nonagesimus?” Gideon asks when Harrow pokes her head out the back door while they’re all having coffee on Palamedes’s porch. Harrow retreats back inside, but they can see her pottering about in the kitchen. It’s a crisp fall day, and they’re all bundled into sweaters and thick jeans. At least the sun is bright. 

Harrow sneers and piles another five books onto the stack in her arms. There’s no way she needs to cross-reference that many volumes.

Harrow spreads herself out over Palamedes’s kitchen table, right where they can see her inside the window.

Gideon spends the rest of the coffee date distracted in a way Cam has never seen before, tense and stealing glances into the kitchen twice a minute. It’s bizarre. Gideon prods at Harrow to get a rise out of her like she can’t stop poking the bear with a stick. They’ve been close for two years, and Cam has never before seen Gideon so openly malcontent.

If she didn’t know better, she would think Gideon was flirting.

She doesn’t often see Gideon flirt. For all that Gideon talks a lot, she’s a homebody at heart, happiest Cam’s ever seen anyone working out in their home gym, doing amazing things in the kitchen, holed up in the shed out back with her latest project. But, when she does go out, Cam likes to watch her. The way she talks so earnestly to whichever woman has caught her interest and is receptive, the way her face lights up with transparent delight when the woman answers her questions. The way Gideon makes all the force of her muscles gentle whenever she touches.

So this isn’t Gideon flirting, because this is Gideon taking up space with her bulk. It’s confusing as all hell, and worse than that, it’s disruptive when her usually-genial friend dissolves into venom. All Cam wants to do is hang out with her two closest friends on the porch and drink her coffee. Mediating World War Harrow was not supposed to be on the menu.

Cam takes Palamedes’s hand, because the easiest way to get rid of Gideon without hurting anyone’s feelings is to imply that she’s about to have sex. She just wants a bit of privacy.

As she expects, Gideon makes her excuses two minutes later, casts one last furious look through the window at Harrow, and then, at last, ambles off toward the wood shed. She’s working on a replacement for Cam’s old wobbly kitchen table. She’ll spend the next few hours planing and sanding happily, which will give Cam the time to work on this problem that she never expected to have.

“Your room?” Cam says, and they go together.

“It’s not your usual time of day for sex,” Palamedes observes when they’re safely closeted between the mounds of research debris that Palamedes piles against the walls. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Cam laughs and leans back against the back of Palamedes’s creaky desk chair. “No, I wanted to talk to you about Gideon and Harrow.”

Palamedes wrinkles his nose. “I swear Harrow usually behaves like a human being.” He pauses, apparently mulling over the vicissitudes of Harrowhark Nonagesimus. “Or more like a human being than she did today, at any rate.”

Good to know that there is some particular alchemy between Harrow and Gideon, and that Cam’s initial read wasn’t completely wrong. “It’s the same with Gideon.”

Tunneling his hands through his hair, Palamedes groans. “I swear I had no idea.”

That’s immaterial. She’s got the house and the mortgage to go with it; they’re going to have to make it work _somehow_. “So, Warden,” she says. “How do we fix it?”

Palamedes goes quiet. It’s one of the things Cam likes best about spending time with him: this silence that they can share while they both work through whatever puzzle they’re trying to solve.

“Give me a few days,” says Palamedes, at last. “I might have an idea.”

* * *

It’s Palamedes’s idea. That is to say, it’s not a bad idea, it’s just... Palamedes has good intentions and good information, but his execution sometimes falters. Still, Cam has to give it to him, this might be one of his better ideas in quite some time. 

“D&D. We should have a D&D night,” he says one night, face half-mashed into his pillow beside Cam. His arm hangs off the side of the bed and has been there for the better part of the past half hour. Palamedes is not very good at pillow talk. “It’s fun, and maybe it will get Gideon and Harrow to warm up to each other a little. It’s a shame to be neighbors and to be so icy.”

Cam nods, staring towards the ceiling at nothing in particular. She’s been roped into a few of Palamedes’s games in college before, but never really understood the rules that well, nor did she see the exact appeal. She’s happy it makes him happy, though. But for fixing the chasm between Gideon and Harrow? Consider Camilla a skeptic. 

“Okay,” Cam finds herself saying. “What do I need to bring?”

“Yourself, food, pen and paper...” Palamedes says absentmindedly, “and Gideon.”

Preparing for D&D night is mostly Gideon-- who was apparently a geek in addition to being a jock in university and actually knows the rules-- helping her understand her pregenerated rogue character Jenny (named for the express purpose of exasperating Palamedes), and assembling an impressive gathering of snacks. Cam stays well out of the kitchen while Gideon goes around like a tornado, putting together a 7-layer dip Cam could only ever dream of constructing, along with a heaping pile of homemade tortilla chips salted lightly and just perfectly. 

If Gideon catches Cam stealing half a dozen chips between dodging stray elbows Gideon flings around the kitchen while cooking, she doesn’t say a thing.

Cam, for her end, recognises where her talents lie and where they don’t. The last time she attempted to apply heat to food that wasn’t within the safe confines of a microwave oven turned out less than ideal, so she goes with simple and foolproof: a vegetable platter with what feels like a hundred kinds of dip. She knows the value of consuming her daily quota of vegetables, and more than that, she knows the value of making it something less of a chore. 

She’s also secretly hoping that she can get Palamedes to eat a single carrot stick. Just one. Maybe if she slathers it in enough dip, he won’t even notice that it’s a vegetable. Unfortunately, the only thing Cam can reliably get Palamedes to put in his mouth is her strap-on, which has neither calories nor nutritional value. Still, a girl can dream.

Harrow opens the door when they knock and her eyebrows pinch ever so slightly when she sees the vegetables Cam’s holding.

“Palamedes is in the kitchen, busy with... something. I’m not quite sure. Come on.” Her words are prosaic and devoid of emotion and Gideon’s jaw tightens at the sight of her. Cam just nods her thanks.

* * *

According to Palamedes at the end of the night, it goes well. In Cam’s eyes, Palamedes manages to consume an entire cherry tomato and half a stick of celery Cam drowns in dip, and that in itself is cause for victory. Gideon eats a frankly astonishing amount of the junk food Harrow and Palamedes provide, and Gideon’s “Gork the Barbarian” and Harrow’s “Nonius the Necromancy Wizard” get along in-game about as much as they get along in real life, but they finished the first mission and “didn’t try to murder the shopkeep” and Palamedes is content with that. It’s nice to see him content like this. To see him relaxed. 

Ultimately when it’s time to go, the containers of food they bring home are empty and most of the six-pack of beer Gideon brought along has vanished.

“We should get a barbecue grill,” Gideon says out of nowhere, halfway across the cul-de-sac. “We had all the fixings of a barbecue right then, except the grill and the...” Gideon waves her hands vaguely. 

“Burgers and hot dogs?” Cam supplies helpfully. Late-night Gideon with greasy food and a beer or two in her sometimes means a Gideon with a halved vocabulary, but also a happy Gideon. Cam’s willing to bear with a disappearing lexicon if it means Gideon’s happy.

Gideon snaps and points. “That’s it. We could just replace the pizza with burgers and hotdogs, you could grill your vegetables or something, it could be great! We could invite the nerds, maybe even the hot twins--”

“Okay, one thing at a time there, champ,” says Cam, but she likes the idea well enough. Backyard cookouts sound like the perfect summertime activity. “We could look at barbecue grills if that’s something you want.”

Gideon nods. “Grilling under the sun, a cooler of beer, cider, and soft drinks in the shade of the back deck, music playing from speakers...”

Gideon prattles off half a dozen other ideas and Cam can’t help the smile that comes onto her lips as they walk up their porch and unlock the door. 

The next morning, Cam opens up a spreadsheet and starts researching grills.


	3. The Test Run

The house is great. Gideon loves the space, loves having a full-sized kitchen effectively to herself, because it turns out Cam burns water. Not what Gideon was expecting, but it means she gets to organize her spice drawer according to her own arcane system and no one moves her shit before she’s done with it. She’ll take it.

She’s cooking dinner now, a one-pot thing featuring chicken and vegetables and rice that makes great leftovers and carried her through her master’s program. Cam has Palamedes over. (That isn’t the problem.)

They’ve fallen into a routine. Cam buys most of the groceries, over Gideon’s protests. She says it’s only fair, because Gideon has the time, inclination, and ability to cook, and Cam… doesn’t. Cam explains that she spent her college years living on instant ramen and her pre-Gideon years living on cheap takeout. She’s been out of school three years longer than Gideon, but apparently, she didn’t take any of the extra time to learn how to cook. (Gideon doesn’t mind this, either.)

They shop together when they can. (One time, unsupervised, Cam bought a pound of cinnamon. Upon Gideon’s increasing horror, she had begun to apologize for not having gotten _enough_ .) When their schedules don’t line up, Gideon takes her bike home and Cam goes to the grocery store alone. Gideon has learned to write _extremely detailed_ lists. (It’s still a work in progress, but they’re getting there, slow and steady.)

It’s easy enough to double her recipes so that they can send food home with Palamedes, who picks at everything anyone serves him. By now, she’s learned that it isn’t personal; Palamedes just eats like that. (Gideon can’t complain, except--)

Cam touches him, reaching up to brush her fingertips over the knife edges of his cheek, putting her hand on his elbow to guide him out of Gideon’s blast radius. (Gideon is well aware that she should never share a kitchen with anyone because she is a terror with terrible elbows. This suits her just fine. It means no one tampers with her spice blends.) 

That by itself would be fine, but Palamedes… does not touch her in return. _Gideon_ touches Cam more than Palamedes does, in fistbumps and affectionate thumps on the back. They’re friends. Gideon doesn’t presume to be worried, except she _is_ a little worried anyway. (And _that’s_ the problem, compounded by the fact that Gideon can’t _do anything_ to _fix_ it.)

Maybe Cam doesn’t even need to be touched like that. But when Gideon plays video games in the living room, Cam drifts in with her book or her laptop and swings her feet into Gideon’s lap. Or, when Cam can’t get the restraining order her client needs because some judge has his head up his ass, Gideon rubs her shoulders. It doesn’t drain all the tension-- the world would need a better justice system for that-- but it _helps_.

The worst part is that Gideon _likes_ Palamedes, in spite of herself. She hopes they work it out.

By the time February rolls around, Cam is dividing her free time between Palamedes’s bedroom and grill review blogs. Since Gideon doesn’t want to think about what Cam sees in Palamedes, she focuses on the grills. Camilla has a grill spreadsheet, of brands and reviews and models. There’s an intense rubric weighting the different feedback by credibility and sentiment. It spans thousands of cells over five different tabs.

In the end, Gideon drags Cam to the hardware store in early March, because she can’t stand the analysis anymore. This time in the season, they’ll pay full price. It’s well worth it because it means Gideon won’t ever have to look at the spreadsheet again. Her carpentry habit means she’s qualified for the rewards program; they’ll still get a discount.

She picks up an edger she’s had her eyes on for a while, too. 

* * *

They hold out until early April before they both break. They set a date based on Palamedes's schedule-- Gideon can’t figure out a way to weasel out of inviting Harrow-- and they work together to make a grocery list. It’s too cold for a cookout, but Gideon’s itching to open their home to their neighbours, and Cam’s certainly not against setting down the handful of cases on her desk for a couple of hours.

They draft a shopping list the Wednesday afternoon before the cookout and Gideon has to pare it down by half. It’s a test drive, after all, not a party. They’ll still end up with enough food to feed a dozen people.

At the store, Cam takes her place at the helm of the shopping cart with the list and they begin their walk around the grocery store. Between their work schedules, Gideon’s hockey, and Cam’s ballet, it’s not often they get to go grocery shopping together, so they stick close. It’s a bonding time for them and Gideon appreciates the conversations that pop up between her touching each vegetable to find the best ones and Cam ticking groceries off their list.

But today is different. Cam is quieter today, quieter than normal. At first, Gideon writes it off to a long day of work, but she’s also catching a few of Cam’s nervous tells. A thumb rubbing against her knuckles. A slight bounce on the balls of her feet. A look on her face like she wants to say something but stops herself each time.

“Okay, what is it?” Gideon finally says, a tomato balanced in each hand. 

Cam turns to her, a deer-in-headlights look on her face. “What?"

“There’s something you need to say. Or want to say.” Gideon shrugs and sets down the tomato in her right hand and picks up another one. That one’s better. “You’ve been thinking about it at least since we walked in here. What is it?”

To her surprise, Cam’s cheeks heat up with the faintest pink of a blush. “We’re going to try exclusivity.”

“Who, you and Palamedes?” Gideon supposes they’ve been more intimate lately. Cam had barely made it home that morning in time to carpool in to work. Come to think of it, she was smiling more this morning too.

“Yes.”

Gideon bites back the uncertainty. She wants them to work, damn it, she wants Cam to be happy. “Congratulations.”

Cam smiles, eyes a thousand yards away. “I think that focusing on one relationship will really help me be happier, you know? Putting in the work to get that deeper connection.”

A man accidentally bumps into Gideon, muttering an excuse. Right, well, these beefsteak tomatoes aren’t going to change the longer she holds them. Gideon puts them in the cart. “I am... happy for you both.”

Cam’s daydreaming gaze sharpens into clarity, focusing on Gideon. Her expression remains unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

Caught out, Gideon shrugs. “I just didn’t know that was something you wanted. Hey, what’s next on the list?”

Cam looks down on her neat handwriting. “Bell peppers.”

They make their way to the next aisle of vegetables and Gideon starts picking through the peppers.

“What I usually do is nice,” Cam says delicately. She means the sex, which is something they agree on and talk about. (Gideon puts the brakes on when it comes to the gory details of sex with Palamedes or any of Cam’s other men, because why would she want to hear that, Cam, really.) Cam continues: “But I’ve been thinking I want something more. And, you know, I’ve been with him for longer than anyone else. I’m feeling good about it.”

Gideon doesn’t have a response to that. She rotates a bell pepper in her hand and sets it back down to pick up another one. She’s not going to think about her reservations about Palamedes. That’s for Cam to think about, and goodness knows Cam is adept at balancing her own love life.

“Hey.”

Gideon looks up. Cam’s got a slightly concerned crease in her brow. She must have been silent for too long.

“You’re being really quiet. Is everything okay?”

Gideon manages a smile. She loves Cam and the truth isn’t going to help anyone here. “Everything’s fine. Just don’t want it to make D&D weird, you know?”

That brings a matching smile back on Cam’s face. Pleased, Gideon puts the bell peppers she’s selected into the cart. “Onions next?”

“Onions.” 

Gideon just hopes the onions are the only reason they'll have for tears in the near future.

* * *

The morning of the cookout, they lift together early so they have extra time to prepare. It’s sunny enough they open the garage door. It’s too brisk for that, really, but it’s good to air out the scent of stale sweat and industrial cleaners. They warm up as they get moving. 

“The most important beef today is in the fridge, not here,” Gideon says and flexes her bicep. Cam rolls her eyes.

When they’re done, Gideon showers fast so she can get to work shaping burger patties and Cam goes outside with her coffee to read the grill manual on a deck chair in the yard. Gideon can see her through the kitchen window, which she opens so she can call out and get Cam’s attention when she gets bored and lonely. Gideon’s phone goes on the window ledge, playing the top 40 songs of the week. Gideon sings every third word, humming the rest a little off-tune. There’s no one around to complain.

By the time Palamedes and Harrow get there, half an hour after the appointed time of 2:00 PM, the first round of burgers are coming off the grill and Gideon’s halfway through her beer. It’s hitting her hard because she’s been so busy cooking that she hasn’t really eaten beyond miscellaneous vegetables pilfered from the tray Cam assembled. 

Gideon has somehow gotten meat juices up to her elbows. This isn’t the first time she’s made burgers, and she doesn’t know what’s gone wrong. 

Cam answers the door. “Palamedes! Harrow!” There’s the audible thud of Cam’s compact body wrapping up Palamedes’s wiry frame. “It’s good to see you both. Come around the house, the food’s that way.” She slips on her shoes and leads their guests through the side yard.

A little part of Gideon squeals excitedly at the reality of having guests over in her home. She reties her apron with nervous anticipation, puts the last patty on the stack, and joins her roommate and her neighbors in the backyard. 

She waves when she sees Palamedes and Harrow. Palamedes nods back in response and Harrow doesn’t do much to acknowledge the greeting. Go figure.

Cam insists on helping grill the burgers after Gideon nearly singes her eyebrows when the manual ends up being half as helpful as they had hoped. Something about wanting to be useful. Gideon understands that. So she lets Cam turn up the gas flame too high and rescues the first batch of burgers when they start getting that crunchy charcoal coating. 

“They’re done!” she calls, and Cam scoops them all up onto a plate and deposits them alongside the buns, toppings, and condiments. They’re on the further side of toasty, but not unsalvageable. Gideon winces a little internally. It’s okay, practice makes perfect.

There’s a slight hesitation on Harrow’s part like she’s afraid Gideon’s put some sort of untoward ingredient in the burgers. Her desire to show Harrow that she's being silly conspires with her own growling stomach. Gideon abandons her attempt at good manners, grabs a plate and stacks her burger. It’s an architectural disaster and the tomato is in perilous danger of simply slipping out of the stack, but between her homemade hot sauce and the hunger, this is going to be the best burger _ever_.

That breaks Harrow’s trance. She stares at the meat and puts together a relatively drab sandwich, pulling a chair close to the house. She tucks her feet up onto the chair and hunches over the burger, picking it up and setting it back down on her plate. She seems content to simply sit there, plate in hand, face inscrutable.

Palamedes isn’t much better in the burger department, but he does try to make small talk with Gideon, which she appreciates. Gideon quickly learns that his area of research is far out of her wheelhouse. She tries, she really does, but despite all her efforts, she’s incredibly thankful when Cam’s hand appears on Palamedes's shoulder and squeezes, leaving the grill for a moment in favour of a bite of food.

“Can I get anyone something to drink?” It’s theoretically an offer to the group, but Cam’s eyes never leave Palamedes’s face.

Palamedes looks up and shakes his head before returning to the conversation, as if nothing had happened. 

Gideon’s eyes track Cam as she gets herself food and a can of beer, cracking it open with a hiss before she sits down. Her fingers rest on Palamedes's knuckles. There’s no effort on his part to reciprocate. Rather, a minute later his hand is gone to wave vaguely in the air while explaining something Gideon’s been lost on for the past four minutes, just nodding robotically in response.

No, her attention is on the way Cam’s brow furrows for a fraction of a second before smoothing back out into an impassive expression. Cam can feel the rejection, Gideon realizes, in spite of her impressive poker face. Anyone else might assume that being rebuffed like that doesn’t affect her, but Gideon’s spent long enough with her. She can tell. 

It’s not awkward, it’s just... it’s an observation. Gideon won’t say she isn’t worried, but Cam can deal with her own love life. She’s a grown adult. The sex must be absolutely phenomenal for Cam to put up with this.

The conversation fades to background noise and Gideon just watches Cam. The slight uptick in the corner of Cam’s lips that doesn’t reach her eyes despite the relaxed way her legs are crossed, ankle over knee.

* * *

Eventually, Gideon goes back for thirds. It’s obvious that they’ve failed to account for the way Palamedes and Harrow (don’t) eat. There’s way too much food, even after Gideon put her foot down and froze half of what Cam bought during prep.

Therefore, it’s a relief when a flash of golden blonde appears on the other side of the fence. “Grilling already?” calls Coronabeth Tridentarius.

“Please come help us eat all this food,” Gideon blurts, even as Cam’s hand slams down on hers in warning or anticipation or maybe something else. 

Apparently, that's all the invitation Coronabeth needs because the gate squeaks open a few seconds later. 

Gideon makes a mental note to ask Coronabeth for permission to fix that wretched sound. Not a hardship to talk to the gorgeous blonde.

No time for that now, though: Coronabeth is walking across their bedraggled lawn, still not yet green. She’s wearing a sundress, even though it's really not sundress weather. Coronabeth fills it out better than half the women in Gideon's magazine collection. She's layered a flimsy little cardigan over it in deference to the season, but it's outrageously inappropriate.

Gideon can't complain at all.

* * *

Cam watches the gate swing shut behind Coronabeth in slow-motion horror. Of course Coronabeth’s welcome to join them. There’s just so _much_ of her. Gideon’s staring openly, and, frankly, Cam would be too if she thought she could get away with it. But she can’t and Gideon isn’t getting away with it either. Harrow’s lip has curled, and Cam just knows that there’s venom behind it. She can’t decide which outcome is worse: Harrow decimating the baby steps towards harmony they’ve achieved in D&D, or allowing Coronabeth to think she lives next to a pair of perverts. To forestall either, she bumps Gideon’s hip with her own, shaking Gideon out of her stupor.

As loudly as she can contrive with a deck chair on grass, she pulls out the seat between herself and Harrow. It successfully distracts Gideon, but Harrow transfers her attention to their new arrival in a way that almost makes Cam ask her if something’s wrong. And then Harrow opens her mouth.

“Griddle, have you decided which Primal Path you’re going to have Gork take?”

Of all the things Cam might have guessed Harrow was about to say, a question about D&D was not one of them. And then again, it’s a rather thinly veiled attempt to shut out Coronabeth. She gives the rest of those assembled a quick glance. Palamedes is sitting up in his chair now, D&D apparently enough to keep him from more ramblings about his research. Gideon looks slightly startled at the change of topic, but easily shrugs her shoulders.

“I was thinking Storm Herald Barbarian. Hack and slash is fun, but I kind of want to play something that has a little more thinking involved. I don’t want to pick a subclass and regret it though. You picked last level, how is playing Nonius?”

Cam feels a poke against her arm and she turns to see Coronabeth’s face leaned in towards hers.

“What are they talking about?”

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Cam answers, voice hushing to match Coronabeth’s. “We play together.”

Coronabeth draws back and Cam is half worried that she’ll step back from the conversation. Instead, Coronabeth leans forward and listens intently as Harrow explains that _obviously_ , Nonius was always going to be a necromancer. It’s thematically appropriate anyways, considering how many bones he’s incorporated into his outfit.

“It’s not like we need a healer anyway,” Harrow says. (Gideon winces hard at that.)

Cam watches Coronabeth’s head tilt to the side for a moment. “Isn’t healing technically necromancy?”

Harrow nearly jerks at the unexpected statement and Cam stifles a smile. 

“If necromancy is magic that directly manipulates the energies of life and death,” Coronabeth continues, “and if healing is putting life back into someone to keep them from death, isn’t that necromancy?”

There’s a beat where Cam braces herself for another of Harrow’s stinging remarks. 

“Actually...” 

Cam can’t help the smile on her lips when Harrow starts saying something about magic and rules. She doesn’t quite know enough about D&D to understand, but it must be significant because Palamedes joins in with his own spiel on the history of D&D and spell classifications, and suddenly Cam’s the one who’s looking in.

She doesn’t mind. Cam understands maybe three-quarters of what they’re saying by now after much help and guidance from Gideon and Palamedes both, but understanding and participating in conversation are two very different things and require very different levels of knowledge. So instead, she'll just watch these interactions between her friends and be thankful for the way the tension between Gideon and Harrow seems to not exist even if it's only for five minutes. She looks to Coronabeth and sees bright eyes lighting up in delight at the conversation. Cam can’t stop her lips from mirroring Coronabeth’s smile. Even Palamedes is smiling, hunched forward in the way he only does when he’s excited about something. 

“Coronabeth,” Palamedes says, and it shakes Cam out of her musings. “Would you like to join our D&D game? You seem interested in playing, and despite what Harrow said earlier, the party could use a healer.”

Coronabeth’s eyes light up. “You’d have me? I don’t want to intrude...”

“You wouldn’t be intruding, we’d love to help you.” Gideon’s making her excited-puppy face. “Here, we can meet up sometime and I’ll help you set up your character sheet, it’ll-- ow!”

“Apologies,” Cam says, not apologetic at all as she pulls her leg back from where she kicked Gideon in the shin. Hard.

The conversation takes a turn and before Cam knows it, they’ve brainstormed half of Clarabelle the Cleric’s backstory. Even when Palamedes leaves, citing a previous commitment that Cam believes to involve a book or dozen, they barely miss a beat digging into reasons why Clarabelle would want to adventure. It’s the continuation of a delightful conversation that has all of their attention. So of course when the downpour begins and the sky dumps buckets of rain on them, no one is anticipating it.

Gideon, always quick to react, springs to her feet first. She grabs the tray of burgers off the table and sets off like a shot into the house. Even then, Cam is certain Gideon hasn’t gotten away unscathed. In the time it’s taken to realise her shock and stand up, she already feels soaked to the bone. She reaches out and grabs Coronabeth’s bicep, gently but quickly leading her inside the house and away from the dismal downpour. 

Gideon moves quickly past them back outside to save the grill, looking like she’s participating in a wet t-shirt contest with the way her white shirt plasters to her arms and shoulders. On the way back out, Gideon squeezes her shoulder and shoots her a pointed look. Cam neither knows what it’s for nor pays it any mind. Meaningful looks can wait until they’re out of the rain.

* * *

It was instinct, sheer panicked instinct, that made Cam grab Coronabeth's arm, and now Coronabeth is looking at her like Cam did something far more impressive than flee from some precipitation. It's a damn good thing Harrow is there, dripping on their kitchen floor like a bedraggled cat. It distracts Gideon, who has hauled in the grill in a magnificent display of flexed muscles under her translucent tee, and who would otherwise probably want to talk about it.

Cam wipes wet hair out of her face and shakes her hand out. Water droplets scatter across the kitchen floor. It doesn’t matter much. The kitchen floor is going to be wet anyway, considering how much they’re dripping, and Cam’s hair is falling back in front of her face again.

"You could probably make a break for it," suggests Gideon dubiously, glancing out the window at the downpour. She puts down the grill and slings an arm over Cam’s shoulder, indecorously wiping her hand dry on Cam’s sleeve. Cam flicks at her palm and slips out from under her arm. Gideon smiles and pats her shoulder, taking up the condiments.

"I'm fine." Harrow has her arms wrapped around her sodden black layers. "It's a spring cloudburst. They never last long."

"I could lend you a shirt or something," Gideon suggests.

"I would rather freeze to death than wear anything from your wardrobe," says Harrow. Her eyes track the swell of Gideon's biceps as Gideon puts the condiments back in the fridge. Curious.

Coronabeth takes off her flimsy cardigan and wrings it out in the sink. She has goosebumps on her pale arms and there’s a thin layer of moisture that clings on to the delicate hairs of her forearm. Cam catches herself staring and makes an effort to look elsewhere. The dress was an optimistic choice even before the rain started. It still looks great on Coronabeth, but also she looks _cold_.

And Cam shouldn't be noticing. She and Palamedes have been exclusive for _three days_. With a relationship that new, it shouldn't be hard to avoid ogling her neighbors. And yet, there's Coronabeth Tridentarius in a flimsy dress in her kitchen, nipples hardened against the cold and clearly visible through thin fabric. It does things to Cam's bits. Just an involuntary physical reaction to an extremely hot woman, Cam decides, surely this kind of thing happens to everyone.

She snaps back to reality when Coronabeth shivers violently.

"What about you?" Gideon is asking Coronabeth, looking doubtful. 

Cam feels doubtful, too. Coronabeth is so big, larger than life in both physicality and personality. "I have that one shirt from the other week," she suggests.

Gideon looks at her, clearly remembering the woman Cam had brought home in mid-December. She'd been big, too, and she'd left her sweater. Cam had tried to get it back to her, but it was pretty hard to track down someone who had never offered her name. That woman was still not as big as Coronabeth is, and certainly not as well-endowed. Still-- best chance they've got.

“Come on up to my room to change?” suggests Cam. 

Coronabeth’s eyebrows wing up as if she’s scandalized and delighted about it. “Asking me up to your room already?”

Cam hadn’t been thinking it, or at least not during the fifteen seconds it took her to conceptualize and then issue the invitation. She sure as hell is now, though. “Nah,” she says out loud. “I’m taken. But if you want somewhere private to change, it’s better than the powder room.” She feels like a pretentious twit saying those words out loud in front of a near-stranger, but it’s how the elbow-cramping little half bath was labeled in the real estate listing, and the label has stuck.

Coronabeth doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. Cam leads her up the stairs into the master bedroom, trying to remember if she left any embarrassing messes on the ground. She usually doesn’t-- she and Gideon have that in common-- but it always seems like she’s missed something when she brings the hottest people back to her bedroom. Not that she’s done that lately-- not that Palamedes would care if he didn’t have such a strong preference for his own space. (Cam thinks that the way he double-stacks books on the shelves lining his room is claustrophobic.)

She opens the door of her bedroom gingerly. No bras looped over the bathroom door or wet towels forgotten on the floor. The bed is neatly made, accent pillows in place. Probably because she’s not actually here to put her hands on the gorgeous blonde who’s currently looking over her space with an appraising eye. Which is kind of a shame. She retrieves the abandoned sweater from the back of her closet and then sits on her bed while Coronabeth uses the bathroom to change.

 _Taken_. It's still such a weird concept, Cam thinks as she listens to the rustling sounds of Coronabeth changing her clothes.

Coronabeth comes out, obviously braless under the straining fabric of the sweater. She isn't wearing pants. It's a long sweater, but it barely covers her hip creases, and there are miles of shapely pale legs with the kind of thick thighs Cam loves to bite. She's holding the sundress over an arm. Looks like she's wrung that out too. "I'm not sure it works."

Cam disagrees with that statement vehemently. It is a fucking fantastic look on Coronabeth. Were circumstances otherwise, she'd take her time, long minutes peeling the fabric up and over Coronabeth's curves, warming her by pressing-- 

But she and Palamedes are exclusive now, and she's creeping on her neighbor. Coronabeth is probably straight, and on top of that, she's still obviously freezing.

"If you wanted, you could borrow my bathtub," says Cam, hating herself a little for all the mental images this conjures up. "I could tumble dry your dress while we wait for the rain to stop."

Coronabeth beams at her and Cam’s heart seizes. “You’d do that? Thank you, darling.”

Cam’s only half a second slow to take the proffered sundress, and she’s pretty proud of herself for that. She leaves Coronabeth with assurances that she could use anything in the bathroom to run her bath and she puts the sundress in the laundry room, setting it to a gentle tumble dry. It’s there that she hears a series of shortly delivered words. A little curious, Cam makes it halfway down the stairs and peeks. 

Any hope she had of Gideon and Harrow having made up their differences through the magic of Dungeons and Dragons evaporates. They haven't killed each other yet, but they're still sniping at each other in a way that means Cam can't rule it out for the future.

Curiously though, what catches Cam’s attention is what she knows for a fact is Gideon's biggest, fluffiest towel, black as night and draped over Harrow’s shoulders like it’s a cloak. What a curious acquisition. Harrow is sitting up perfectly straight, like a queen, incongruously perched at their kitchen table. Gideon slouches backwards, excessively even for Gideon, over one of their kitchen chairs. She’s picking at the sad, burnt remains of a cold burger. Somehow, she makes it aggressive. Regardless, so long as manslaughter isn’t occurring on her property, Cam isn’t that terribly concerned. There are other things on her mind right about now. Namely, Coronabeth.

Cam makes her way back up the stairs, pauses at the door to her own bathroom, and knocks, steeling herself. When she goes in, she fixes her gaze intensely on the ceiling.

"You can look," says Coronabeth, sounding highly amused. "I'm completely covered."

Cam risks it. The thick layer of bubbles rises up to Coronabeth's chin. She's already holding a book. Cam squints at it. It's the one she'd been reading the previous evening, an anthology of stories about sword lesbians. Coronabeth has pilfered it from her bedside table.

"You thief," she breathes, smiling in spite of herself.

"I can put it back," says Coronabeth. "But it has so many of my favorite things in it." She strokes the back jacket copy.

"I didn't realize you'd like that kind of thing," Cam says. She's not sure whether she's more surprised about the swords or the lesbians.

"Most people don't." Coronabeth marks her place with a finger. "I don't care what they think."

This is… interesting information. Not useful information anymore, since Cam is happily dating Palamedes now, but interesting nevertheless. Maybe she’ll pass it along to Gideon.

And then again, maybe she won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a subtle shout-out to the Silk & Steel anthology, out November 2020. WE ARE EXCITED.


	4. Adventures and Assumptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our beloved Locked Tomb Discord is celebrating the release (???) of the Sixth House short story “The Mysterious Study of Doctor Sex” with a Get Hect’ed event on Saturday, June 6! To give all the wonderful Sixth House content time to shine, we’re delaying Sunday’s scheduled update until Monday, June 8.
> 
> https://cassyblue.tumblr.com/post/614170898902253568/have-you-heard-necros-and-cavs-were-getting-a  
> https://twitter.com/insectoidreview/status/1245223591601291265  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/B-bV-B4pKqc/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet

It takes forever for Thursday to roll around. Her neighbors are nerds, but they’re  _ hot _ nerds, so Coronabeth will take it. She had more fun at that rainy barbecue with its bad, burnt burgers than she’s had in the last three parties she’s attended.

Coronabeth Tridentarius is a realist. She knows she’s little more than a collection of bad impulses wrapped in a shiny lacquer shell. Her neighbors make her want to be more.

She’s known their names for months now-- the hot one is Gideon Nav; the hotter one is Camilla Hect. They leave for work early in the morning, while Corona’s still having her first cup of coffee, unload groceries together more often than not, sit together on their back porch and look out over the backyard that has already changed so much since they’ve moved in.

But now she knows that Gideon's laugh sounds like a shaken ceramic jar full of river rocks and rusty nails. It scrapes out of her throat every time something amuses her, which is often. In contrast, Camilla's clearly-enunciated whisper curls around the curve of her ear like cream in her coffee, unfurling into darkness until everything gets just a few shades lighter.

She doesn’t know much, but she does know people. She knows when someone’s looking at her, thrills under the weight of eyes, and she knows that both Camilla and Gideon have looked at her and enjoyed the view. (Camilla hides it better. It makes Corona want to take her apart like clockwork, figure out what makes her tick, put her back together with enough extra space in the mechanism to install a Corona-shaped gear.)

They’d invited her over, shared their food, and listened to her input, when they didn’t have to do even the first of those things. 

“That’s a good idea,” Camilla had told her. It had been  _ years _ since Corona had gotten a compliment that wasn’t about her appearance.

And then, thrillingly, they’d gotten rained out and Cam had rescued her. For a shining, breathtaking moment, when Camilla’s hand had closed around her arm, Corona had thought she’d had a chance with her-- or with  _ them _ together, because the two of them really do interact like a couple just past their newlywed phase, even though Camilla introduced Gideon as her roommate. Neither of them wear rings, but not everyone does these days. Gideon has the kind of scars on her hands that suggest a job or a hobby where rings are a hazard. Or they could have some reason they want to stay closeted-- though that interpretation also strains credulity, because their interactions aren’t subtle, and Gideon in particular is visibly and flamingly queer.

It’s a puzzle Corona desperately wants to solve. She always does this, pressing, teasing out everyone’s secrets for the sheer joy of possession. It’s her flaw. She knows better, she  _ knows _ better, and it never stops her.

She knows she pushed too hard in Cam’s bathroom. The revelation that it was Cam’s room--  _ only _ Cam’s room-- emboldened her to break the rules. (She knows better. Cam had said she was taken, and Corona knows how to accept a rejection gracefully. It was wrong, but she pushed anyway.)  Flying in the face of decency and decorum, she’d made a dozen innuendoes. At every one, controlled, contained Camilla had given her extraordinary reactions. It would have taken a stronger woman than Coronabeth Tridentarius to resist ruffling the feathers of a woman so clearly unused to discomfiture.

Camilla had sent her home with a sundress warm from the dryer, a new phone number in her contacts list, and a reminder that they’d like to see her at D&D on Thursday.

She doesn't dare call them friends. They seem like the type of neighborly people who will extend an invitation out of kindness. Well, Camilla and Gideon seem that way, at least. There’s also Harrow, and Coronabeth, who prides herself on taking anyone’s measure within five minutes of conversation, has never been able to get a read on her.

But it’s a chance to make a real friend, a chance to be more than her own worst qualities. She won’t squander it.

  


* * *

  


Coronabeth checks and double-checks the text from Camilla on her lunch break. It’s got a list of materials that Coronabeth has gathered into a new leather bag expressly for the purpose, a time, and an address (as if Coronabeth needs directions to Palamedes’s house).

She isn’t sure what she’s expecting when she arrives at her first D&D session, but it’s certainly not for Palamedes to lead her  to a huge dining room table that’s seen better days. An old gridmat curls at the edges in the center of the table and there are books and whiteboard pens scattered across it. He pulls out two dozen clear cylinders filled with polyhedral dice of various colours. “Take your pick,” he says,  and begins walking her through character creation.

Neither Gideon nor Camilla are here yet, and she has to hide her disappointment. Even though it turns out that, upon actually interacting with him, Palamedes is just as nice as either Gideon or Camilla, he’s not her type. The warmth returns as they get into it, though, as she relates the suggestions Gideon and Camilla and Harrow had made for Clarabelle the Cleric.

She ends up choosing a set of translucent purple dice with embedded golden flecks. They sparkle on the table beside her notebook, the turn flowchart, and her character sheet, now safely encased in a page protector.

They’ve nearly finished when Harrow filters downstairs and sits beside her,  laying out a place setting similar to the one in front of Coronabeth . Everything she has, from dice to notebook to tray, is black.  Once her things are laid out in haphazard piles across her section of the table, she leans over and squints at Corona’s character sheet. “You still need equipment. Do you want a hand with that?”

Palamedes pinches the bridge of his nose. “I knew I was forgetting something. Do you mind, Harrow?”

Harrow doesn’t even answer him. She’s already flipping through a book and offering Coronabeth her choice of weapons, her focus intense and complete. “Which of these would you like?”

Corona considers the proffered options. The mace looks both shiny and spiky. She rubs her finger over the illustration. “How does it work?”

“In short?” Harrow says. “You hit people with it.”

It startles a laugh from Corona. “That’s it?”

“We’ll walk you through the combat when we get there,” says Harrow.

It’s such an about-face from the welcome Harrow gave her at the cookout. Corona can’t complain. She has so many questions she wants to ask, and Harrow seems content to answer them as they wait for the others to arrive.

Camilla and Gideon spill through the door without knocking a few minutes later. Gideon’s arms are full of reusable plastic containers and zip-top bags, and Camilla’s carrying an enormous grocery store vegetable tray. 

Harrow’s attitude changes like a light switch. She sits up ramrod straight and clasps her hands primly underneath her chin as Camilla and Gideon tumble into chairs across the table and start stacking dice into a tower. They couldn’t look more different from each other.

Gideon attempts to put the pyramid-shaped one on top and Camilla tsks when Gideon puts it too far to the left, flicking her arm. "Don't knock it down, clumsy."

"Like you didn't knock over the cards house earlier." Gideon sticks her tongue out in concentration, squinting to set it down on the tower just right.

Camilla rolls her eyes and bumps the table playfully, sending the tower crashing down.

"Hey!" Gideon's face is a perfect mix of horror and amusement, her expression entirely undercut by her massive grin. She shoves at Camilla's shoulder affectionately and Camilla headbutts her arm right back.

Corona suppresses a smile. They’re the cutest couple going.

Harrow gives them a long, pained sigh. "Surely I would have thought you learned to  _ keep your hands to yourself _ in kindergarten.”

Palamedes clears his throat loudly and the table falls silent, all eyes turning to the head of the table. His fingers are carefully steepled in front of his face as he looks over his glasses at the players. "Shall we begin?"

Everyone sits up a little straighter in preparation for the tale to unfold.

"For our new player's benefit," he says, sweeping his hand in Corona's direction, "Gork, Nonius, and Jenny had all broken free of the underground prison they were kept in after an opportune demon attack created a diversion, and are running through the Underdark escaping their pursuers. They now stand at the gates of Gracklstugh, home to the Kuo-Toa fish people..."

It's surprisingly easy to get sucked into the story when Clarabelle appears and joins the party. There's a cult growing stronger by the day among the fish people and at the head of this illegal worship is the chieftain himself. Each panel they flip over reveals more treachery and Palamedes pulls out a map everybody oohs and aahs over.

Despite the enthralling story, something else has also caught Corona's attention.

Gideon and Camilla are sharing a set of dice and there's a sort of easy affection that's obvious between the two. It's in Gideon batting at Camilla's hand when Camilla tries to take the dice too soon, it's in Camilla bumping her shoulder against Gideon's when one of them makes a particularly good roll, it's in the way Gideon leans over to whisper something into Camilla's ear that makes Camilla bite back a snort.

"If you two knock over the minis, I'm not helping you put them back," Harrow says when Gideon and Camilla pull off a perfect no-look high five.

Corona knows she has no right to be jealous. Camilla isn't hers. Still, at least she knows who she’s dating now. It sits close to the front of her mind every time she leans over the table to ask Gideon questions about the way her spells work. It feels intrusive to the easy synchrony that Gideon and Camilla have, like she's stepping on ice without skates on. She doesn't want it to be misinterpreted. Especially not with the neckline on the shirt she's chosen today.  (It had seemed like such a good idea when she’d chosen the top. She’d wanted to put her best self forward. If that’s not the breasts, she doesn’t understand why they invited her over, but she’s not complaining and she’s going to do her best to deserve it.) It's not her intent to intrude and she cares about her friendship with Gideon and Camilla entirely too much to let a misunderstanding tear it all away from her. So when Palamedes calls for a break, desperate for a trip to the bathroom, Corona volunteers to refill the snacks in the kitchen with Camilla.

Camilla brings out a large  zip-top bag of tortilla chips and shakes out a bowlful.

"Are those the homemade ones?" Corona asks. She picks one up herself and pops it in her mouth. It's very good.

"As always." Corona definitely does not stare when Camilla licks her lips and grabs one to eat.

“I’m in awe of your girlfriend,” says Corona. 

Camilla freezes halfway into a bite of chip. “She’s not my girlfriend.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Corona wracks her brain. Gideon had been her normal affectionate self at the  table all night . She’d gotten no trouble-in-paradise vibes.  And here they are playing D&D as if nothing had ever happened? None of this makes any sense. “Are you okay?”

The thunderstruck look lingers on Cam’s face for another beat. Then she swallows her mouthful and bursts into laughter. “Oh, Cor, no, it’s not like that between me and Gideon. I’m dating  _ Palamedes _ .”

Coronabeth  likes to think that she is very good at reading people. She  _ is  _ very good at reading people. Gideon touches Cam at least three times as much as Palamedes does. Her assumption is natural. She studies Cam intently, and comes up with. Huh. Weirder things have happened, she supposes. “My mistake,” she says, at last. 

Cam shrugs, easy. “It’s okay. You want to get the hummus out of the fridge?”

And like that, everything falls back to normal. The snacks go back out, a demon called Demogorgon emerges from the pool, Gideon swears up a storm, and Palamedes sends her home with the dice.

Corona is confused. About the game, a little about Cam. But there’s also a warmth in her chest as she walks up the steps to the front door, keeping quiet so she doesn’t wake Ianthe -- it’s late. It feels good. She hopes they invite her again next week.


	5. Magnus and Abigail

The morning of their first _real_ barbecue, Cam has to talk Gideon out of wearing an actual tie. (Cam is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, like a normal person.)

"It’s a casual event," she protests, even as Gideon fiddles the knot into place. Gideon wears the tie while prepping burgers, and Cam breathes a sigh of relief when Gideon manages to get mustard on it and changes out of it.

By the time the doorbell rings (an anemic sound that Gideon has sworn she is going to replace), Gideon has put her barbecue apron on over a soft t-shirt. She’s still wearing her current best pair of jeans, Cam notices, and Gideon goes through jeans. Her job wears through the knees, they acquire stains from power tools or grease, and her thighs rub at the seams until they burst. These ones are still nice.

They invited Magnus and Abigail to come over a little early so that Gideon could give them the tour. Cam hasn't actually met them before-- Gideon spent the holidays with them the previous year, but they haven't been around. Nerves float through the air, thicker than pollen. Cam might be allergic. Still, it’s a little bit adorable.

Two weeks ago, they had been sitting at the dining table together, Gideon with her nice pen in hand, putting each letter onto the invitation card with utmost care. The flimsy piece of paper to her side had been filled with practice runs, a dozen attempts at wording, and then another dozen just to get the lettering and spacing just right.

"Barbecues don’t usually require written invitations, Gideon. Shouldn’t you just text?" Cam had asked. 

Gideon had shrugged, lifting her pen off the paper so she wouldn’t put down an unwanted line. "They’ll appreciate it," she had answered, and continued on in her efforts, the tip of her tongue sticking out between her lips slightly in concentration.

The reply had come in a beautiful cream envelope, the response written on weighty paper. Abigail and Magnus would be delighted to attend. Cam thinks it might be actual calligraphy. She thumbs the edge of it, where Gideon has affixed it to the refrigerator with an industrial-strength magnet.

So Cam isn't sure what she expects when Gideon opens the door. It's not a comfortable looking older man-- presumably Magnus-- wearing a hamburger-print short-sleeved button-down, cargo shorts, and sandals, nor is it Abigail in a demure sundress and sensible flats. They toe off their shoes, and then Gideon bounds off up the stairs, starting the tour with her bedroom. Cam drifts along with them, caught in the wake of Gideon’s magnetic enthusiasm.

Cam has known Gideon for fewer than three years, lived with her for only six months, and she can see it in the way Gideon shifts her weight onto the balls of her feet and the way that her gestures grow bigger and more vibrant than they are when she’s relaxed. Cam can only assume Magnus and Abigail know how nervous Gideon is.

When they get down to the gym in the garage, the last stop in the tour, Gideon explains that the whole space is Cam’s idea, and that Cam’s the best gym buddy she’s ever had, and that her whole hockey team has been impressed with her fitness level. Her expression has finally settled down into something approaching normal for Gideon, and it’s full of excitement and affection-- for Magnus and Abigail, of course, but also for Cam. She can only see the magnitude because someone else is watching.

It’s a hell of a thing to realize right before they’re about to have twenty people over for burgers and beer. Cam puts it away and focuses on the way Gideon’s hands tighten on Abigail’s mid-back, like she’s so happy to host her foster parents that it’s physically painful.

"We’re proud of you," says Magnus. "Do you remember when you were thirteen and you came to live with us, and you hid that fencing foil you’d dug out of a dumpster under your bed because you were afraid that if we found out we’d make you stop practicing with it?"

Gideon colors lightly. "And then you got me fencing lessons."

"You never told me you fenced," says Cam.

Gideon ducks her head when she smiles, scratching the base of her neck. "I don’t. Too many damn rules. But I didn’t know that when I was trying to teach myself in the back of the school football fields. I just thought that it was cool because there was a sword."

"You were much happier once you got into hockey," says Abigail, reminiscently. "I’m glad it’s worked out."

Presumably to forestall any additional stories, Gideon says, "I have to fire up the grill. Can I offer you a beer or a soft drink while I get that going?"

Cam walks them to the front door to retrieve their shoes. Out the front windows, she can see a second car pull into the cul de sac and park next to the curb. By now, Cam recognizes the woman who emerges by face, but she can’t recall her name.

"Gideon!" she calls, opening the door. "Someone’s arrived!"

Gideon comes back and hands off Abigail’s wine and Magnus’s iced tea just in time to see the muscular blonde woman come up the front steps. Her smile curls up easily and their hug involves a heavy thump on the back. "Hey, how are you?"

"Doing all right. It’s good to see you."

They part and Gideon stands to the side, the arrival of another familiar face tamping down her nerves. "Magnus and Abigail, this is Ashley. She’s on my hockey team," says Gideon, saving Cam from having to ask. "Ashley, my foster parents, Magnus and Abigail."

They make their way around the side of the house in a clump, and Gideon starts up the grill. Cam has to admit that Gideon’s better with it than she is, in part because, over the past few weeks, Gideon has seized upon every flimsy excuse she can manufacture to grill chicken breasts on it.

Hand in hand, Magnus and Abigail settle comfortably on the swinging wooden loveseat and begin to make polite conversation with Ashley.

Cam goes into the kitchen for the drinks cooler. Showtime.

* * *

By the time Palamedes gets there-- late as usual-- Cam’s had to manage the bulk of the introductions, including half of Gideon’s hockey team. (She’s just lucky that she remembered Judith and Marta’s names-- mostly because they’re married life goals.) Harrow’s trailing after him, wearing an enormous hat in addition to the rest of her usual unrelieved black. On someone less spiky, it would look fashionable; on Harrow, it looks like a personal attack directed at the sun with malice aforethought.

She ignores the malevolent presence of Harrowhark Nonagesimus and goes to greet Palamedes. _Her boyfriend_. Not her hook-up or her friend with benefits, but so much more and so much better. She moves in to hug him, and his hands brush lightly over her back. Pressing her luck, she lifts her face for a kiss, but he’s looking over her shoulder at something. Cam takes her cue and steps away to see what he’s looking at.

Gideon’s waving, and anyway Palamedes has never been much for public displays of affection. They’ll have plenty of opportunities to kiss later.

She turns to trail a little behind him towards the back but is interrupted by a polite clearing of a throat behind her. 

A voice calling her name interrupts her reverie. "Hey, Cam." Coronabeth has tied back half of her golden hair into the kind of messy style that Cam suspects takes significant time and skill to achieve. Delicate wisps of hair frame her face, and yet it still adds five inches to her already-impressive height. She’s leaning over the fence in a low-cut pink sundress that’s partially visible through the white pickets. It’s an excellent look on her.

Hastily clearing her throat, Cam marshals her thoughts back to an appropriate place. "I’m glad you came."

Coronabeth beams at her and leans in, as if confiding. "Ianthe had a thing. I wasn’t sure I should, you know." She waves long fingers through the air, as if that explains what thing Ianthe has. A polite fiction, no doubt. Her eyes sweep down over Cam’s soft fitted tee, taking in the logo of Cam’s dance studio and lingering on the seams of the pockets of her jeans.

Cam shouldn’t be reading into it. God knows reading too much into the little things only complicates things outside of her job. She still can’t stop herself from leaning in to meet Coronabeth halfway. "I thought I told you." Cam chooses her words carefully. "I... I liked having you at the last one." It’s true, if an understatement. She goes to the gate between their properties and holds it open while Coronabeth comes over. "Gideon’s on the grill, so the burgers should be edible this time. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Is it too early for wine?"

Cam’s smile matches Coronabeth’s, bright and warm, the awkward moment with Palamedes all but forgotten. "Red or white?"

* * *

Harrow installs herself under the porch overhang at a carefully-calculated distance from Gideon’s excessively friendly foster parents. There’s an acceptable amount of shade, sheltered against the back wall of the building. Her hat helps, but it’s early afternoon, and Harrow hasn’t spent years avoiding the hideous daystar to allow Gideon’s barbecue to ruin her streak.

She wishes she could feign incomprehension as to how this happened, but she understands all too well. Case in point: Palamedes-- her sensible roommate, whose priorities she has always admired-- is standing next to Gideon’s grill, making conversation with their terrible new neighbors. His hand hangs loose at his side while Camilla, their other neighbor, curls her fingers around his. It’s utterly obvious that Palamedes doesn’t want the same thing Camilla wants. Harrow has no time for other people’s mistakes.

Her own, on the other hand, she has to live with. She consented-- under duress-- to play D&D with Palamedes and Camilla, and Gideon apparently comes as part of that package. And now, apparently, so does barbecue attendance. Something about "going outside" and "getting sun."

She scowls. Camilla is fretting over Palmedes’s paper-pale skin, caking him in sunscreen while he rambles on about his latest personal research project. Behind them, Camilla’s friends from her ballet lessons mingle with people from Gideon’s hockey team over drinks. Harrow doesn’t understand why Gideon perpetually insists on surrounding herself with people. Neither does she understand why the people in question allow it. It's strange. All of this is very strange.

It’s probably because they don’t know Gideon yet. Harrow has known her since they met in kindergarten, when Gideon stole Harrow’s crayons and Harrow tripped her in retaliation. She has barely improved since. And now she lives next door in the greatest "oh fuck no" moment in her life.

Gideon laughs loudly to her right and Harrow turns to look at the grill. Gideon's standing there in a shirt that fits around her biceps entirely too well, apron wrapped around her front. A pair of absolutely ridiculous sunglasses perches on her nose. Sun glints off the frames, blinding Harrow for a moment. She squints and looks back just in time to watch Gideon direct an annoyingly winning smile at one of Cam's friends, brushing marinade on something on the grill.

It's a good look on Gideon and Harrow hates it.

Luckily, small mercies mean that they've both grown up a little since high school. Since Harrow buried herself in studies and Gideon left her for hockey teammates and any girl who would give her a modicum of attention. No, Harrow was no more the devil than Gideon, and even then, Gideon's only devil-adjacent now. But still annoying, still belligerent, still Gideon.

"So do you have a favorite ballet?"

It's not often that someone takes Harrow by surprise like that. Her musings must have been deeper than she had thought. Her head whips towards the source of the voice and finds one of Gideon's friends at her side, can of shitty beer in hand. She's tall, blonde, Gideon-sized. She looms, and her personality takes up even more space. It's rather suffocating, if Harrow's being honest.

Harrow looks to Gideon for help but Gideon is talking to the same woman, tongs moving animatedly in her hand as she speaks. No help from that quarter.

When it becomes clear the woman isn’t going to leave, Harrow answers. "No?" It's short and clipped. A prayer that this is where the conversation ends. It goes unanswered.

"I’m always so impressed by the athleticism," the woman says.

This woman would be making fantastic conversation if she was talking to anyone other than Harrowhark Nonagesimus, but Harrow has no desire to speak to anyone, least of all one of Gideon’s friends. There are any number of ballet-interested parties in attendance; she doesn’t understand why she’s being forced into conversation. She huffs. "I suppose that is true."

"Does it hurt your feet?"

Harrow's brow furrows, disconcerted. "What?" 

"When you do pointe."

"What?" Oh, so that's what this is about. Yes, of course bird-boned and slight Harrow dances. What an obvious and incorrect assumption. She's about to give this interloper a piece of her mind, tell her in barely tempered words that drip with venom to go trip onto a cactus and take her leave, preferably sooner than later when--

"Ashley! I see you’ve met my friend Harrow." Gideon steps bodily between the two. Up close, Harrow can see that she was right-- Gideon and Ashley are the same height. Somehow, Gideon’s presence isn’t half as oppressive. Loath as Harrow is to admit it, it’s a breath of fresh air. 

Wait. Friend? Since when between Gideon pouring bleach on her plants the night before the science fair presentation and now did they become _friends_? Harrow almost laughs. Except Harrow doesn’t laugh, and her expression turns to absolute stone. She is not friends with Gideon Nav, not in Gideon’s wildest dreams. Associates would be a reach.

"Can I borrow you for a second?" Gideon asks Harrow. Her eyes dart to Ashley's and she not-so-subtly nods away. Ashley takes the cue and absconds.

Harrow's grimace twists further. "What do you _want_ , Nav?" She hisses.

"Try out this marinade for me?" She plucks a bamboo skewer loaded with vegetables off a paper plate and proffers it. They’re beautifully cooked, grill marks criss-crossing pieces of squash and pepper.

Harrow glares at the offending utensil and recoils a little. Admittedly, their D&D characters Gork and Nonius have embarked on a journey to taste all the different meads in the kingdom in an effort to bond. That doesn't mean that Harrow is going to do the same thing in real life. Gideon's eyebrow twitches in an expression she doesn't catch quite soon enough and Harrow sighs. She's a guest, she should try to play nice. Fine. She reaches for the skewer and snatches it away, taking a tiny nibble from it.

It's good. Really good.

"Needs more pepper." It doesn't, but it feels wrong to not prod.

Gideon nods appraisingly. "Thanks." She returns to the grill and Harrow's once more subject to the tragedy of having to look at stupid triceps and stupider shoulders.

Gideon's roommate moved here for her then-fuck buddy, now-boyfriend. A bold move, Harrow concedes, but potentially foolish. If they don't work out, their cul-de-sac suddenly gets much more awkward, and Harrow's not about to attempt anything close to reconciliation if this whole living situation is built on glass.

Still, maybe it's worth a little bit of softening. She’ll never tell Gideon, but... the skewers are _quite_ good.

* * *

It’s late. Late enough that Magnus and Abigail have gone home, late enough that the sun has retired below the horizon and moths flutter prettily by the lights. A cool breeze blows through, carrying the low sounds of conversation around the backyard. Gideon and her hockey friends are gathered around the raised beds talking amongst themselves and a few attendees have paired themselves off to chat. 

It’s a lovely sight. Corona smiles a little to herself. Usually, she’s the one with a thousand and one ears lending themselves to her. It’s different, not being the center of attention. Not bad, just... different.

The breeze blows again and it’s starting to get chilly for her outfit. Corona begins to step into the house. There’s a light on in the kitchen, and perhaps its occupant would appreciate some conversation. Even if they wouldn’t, she wouldn’t mind another drink.

Corona steps into the kitchen via the Dutch door and pauses when she looks up to see who it is. Standing there, back facing Corona, is Cam. She’s measuring something into a jigger and pouring it into a cocktail shaker. Corona closes the door behind her silently and stands to the side, watching. Her eyes trace the way Cam’s arms move, tracing flexing forearms until they’re hidden under an impossibly soft-looking flannel when she shakes the cups, ice rattling.

She waits until Cam’s set down the shakers and pops it open to say something. "I didn’t know you knew how to mix drinks."

Cam startles, nearly spilling her drink. "Fuck," she says with a breathless chuckle. "Didn’t notice you." Steadying her hand again, she pours her drink into a glass. "I was a bartender in college to pay the bills. Got a job and a few tricks out of it. Can I make you something?"

Corona files that tidbit away in her head under Facts About Cam. "Surprise me?"

She feels more than she sees Cam’s gaze flicker over her. Cam gives a little nod and pulls out bottles familiar to Corona. Gin. Lime juice. Simple syrup. A gin gimlet then, if that’s it. Cam’s motions are smooth as she stirs, strains, garnishes, and holds it out.

"Have a drink with me?" Corona asks, letting her fingertips touch Cam’s hand briefly when she takes the glass. It’s cool in her palm.

"I, uh, sure." Cam clears her throat and picks up her drink, the corner of her lip lifting into a smile. "Porch? It’s nice and quiet."

Corona is all too happy to follow Cam wherever she goes. The view from behind isn’t bad at all either, and Corona only chastises herself once. Cam’s taken. To be perfectly honest, she’s still floored that that refers to Palamedes and not Gideon. And then again, it’s not her place to make assumptions. Either way, Cam’s not hers to have. To appreciate from a distance, maybe.

They arrive at the porch and she takes a seat on the bench swing there, appreciating the way it sways, a creak comforting her in the quiet of their little bubble. It’s late, though not yet midnight and the stars have come to relieve the sun of its place in the sky. 

Cam drags over something beside the bench swing and perches on it, a stout little object. "What even is that?" Coronabeth asks, indicating the wooden thing. It looks like a solid chunk of tree.

"It’s a stool," says Cam, running her hand over the bark. "Gideon made it."

Coronabeth says, "It looks like a weird coffee table."

Cam snickers. "Don’t let her hear you say that. She yells at me every time I put my coffee on it."

"My lips are sealed." She hesitates-- maybe this is too familiar-- but it’s late and she’s still slightly buzzed. The darkness folds over them like a blanket, summer stars speckled in the sky. And what does she have to lose? "It’ll be our secret."

Her reward comes in the white flash of Cam’s teeth, a smile that makes Coronabeth sit up a little straighter. 

Silence falls, but it’s comfortable. Cam doesn’t sit still, shifting constantly on her stool. Normally, that level of movement would make Coronabeth look for a graceful exit. She’s too busy to spend time with people who don’t want to be there with her. But, even as she draws her limbs into pretzel shapes, Cam angles herself toward Coronabeth, hips and shoulders and knees pointing true. (She can’t believe she didn’t know Cam danced. Her obvious flexibility opens a world of possibilities, none of which are going to occur in real life, because _Cam is taken, Coronabeth_.)

Even though she knows better, knows that the hope she can’t quite squash is futile, the attention blazes over her skin, bringing her body to life. It makes her feel bold. "I feel like I know so little about you." She leans in conspiratorially, letting the arms crossed over her stomach push her breasts up. Even if Cam isn’t interested, they’re still practically objets d’art. Cam deserves the best. "You’ve been here six months, and I only learned today that you dance."

"You knew that Gideon plays hockey," Cam points out.

Coronabeth raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" It’s not that Cam’s wrong-- it’s that Coronabeth can’t figure out how she knows.

Cam reads her perfectly. "Two or three times a week, she carries an enormous bag and a hockey stick out to our car. It’s not exactly subtle."

"What’s your point?" She’s intrigued in spite of herself.

"I’m quieter." But she’s smiling, a restrained curve that draws Corona in. 

Corona pushes her luck and leans forward a bit more. Cam’s gaze darts down and then fixes back on Corona’s eyes. "So tell me something I don’t know."

"Oh, I’m not that interesting." Cam sips from her glass in a manner Corona can only describe as _thoughtfully_. "Just another lawyer who thought she could do some good in the world of family law. But what about you? Who are you, Coronabeth Tridentarius?"

No one has ever said Corona’s name like that before, like they’re licking into their favorite flavor of ice cream cone. She leans back on the swinging bench, letting it sway, glass cool in her hands. She vehemently disagrees that Cam is uninteresting. No, she’s utterly fascinating to Corona, but that is something that will remain in her head and not spill out, not tonight, not ever. "Corona," she finds herself saying. "Anyone who knows me calls me Corona."

"Okay, Corona," Cam says slowly. "Tell me something I don’t know." On someone else, it could be mockery. But Cam’s dark eyes are steady, and Corona can’t look away. Doesn’t want to. Same thing.

She takes her time to consider the puzzle of what Cam already knows about her. "You probably already know that I work in PR."

Cam’s smirk grows a little wider. "I didn’t, actually. Not that it was PR specifically. Why that field?"

Corona wants to ask what Cam _does_ know about her. Everyone pays attention to her: she makes sure of it, but she also makes sure that she shows off so many obvious things they never guess any of the truth. With Cam, everything is different. She wants to know how Cam’s attention feels.

But she also knows better than to ask for attention like that, especially from this woman who she’s spent bare hours with-- that first cookout, a couple of hours around the table at the one D&D session she finally managed to attend last week, and now this time they’ve spent together today. She’s too much, she asks for too much, and she knows it. 

She answers the question and doesn’t press. "I’m good at it." That doesn’t seem like enough. "Appearances matter and I know how to make people see what I want them to see. And it pays the bills."

Cam’s eyes flick over her again. There’s a silence, a thoughtful pause, and Corona wants to know what went in it. "Your family approves, I take it."

So that’s another thing that Cam has seen. Their parents aren’t over often, but their visits aren’t subtle, either. Corona shrugs. "Family is… important." Even when it hurts, she knows Ianthe will always have her back.

"To me, too," says Cam, rubbing at her fingernails with her thumb. "They live so far away, but when I got the job offer here, where I went to school…"

"I can’t imagine," says Corona. She really can’t. There’s an event for her family at least once a month-- a party or an obligation, something that they all do together. Even more, if she counts the traditions she only shares with Ianthe-- their weekly sisters lunch date on Monday afternoons, the way Ianthe gets grouchy if Corona misses their Wednesday and Saturday coffee confabs.

There’s a faint furrow in Cam’s brow, so Corona changes the subject. "Hey, I didn’t understand how flanking worked in D&D last week. Do you get it on every turn?" 

Cam laughs. "I’m new to D&D myself. You should probably ask Gideon or Palamedes if you want a good explanation."

Corona glances over at Gideon. The hockey team has begun to drift off to their vehicles and head home for the night. And, of course, Palamedes has been gone for hours. Besides, she’d rather ask Cam. "But you’re here," she says, infusing the tone with warmth. Her voice hits the cooling air and comes out sultry, like ripe fruit on a sun-soaked terrace. "And their explanations are so… technical."

"Don’t blame me if I miss the details," Cam says, but she’s laughing as she launches into an animated explanation.

The hours slip away from them then-- Corona doesn’t know how they wander away from D&D, but they end up talking about Cam’s motorcycles and Corona’s favourite baked goods, the best spots to hike in the surrounding area and the local coffee shops that sell the best beans, everything that doesn’t really matter but also means everything when you’re just getting to know someone. At some point, Cam goes inside to make them another round; when she comes back, she joins Corona on the bench.

Before she knows it, it’s nearly two in the morning. Gideon went to bed hours ago. "Hey." Corona holds out her near-empty glass. "A toast."

Cam looks a little puzzled but lifts her glass to meet Cor’s halfway. "What to?"

Corona shrugs. "Does there need to be something we toast to? How about... to friendship?"

Cam’s soft smile does something Cor can’t quite place. It’s difficult to read her on any given day, even harder now with a few drinks in her system and the porch light backlighting her. She’s... Cam’s been blessed with good looks. That’s an acceptable thought to have.

"To friendship."

Glasses clink together and the liquor slides down easy. It’s warmth in her chest along with sweet company that fends off the early morning chill. Cam’s smile is easy like this and Cor looks her fill before letting her eyes flicker down and away. 

Corona talks to so many people-- colleagues and acquaintances and customers and family. It’s been so long since she’s actually talked about how she feels to someone who actually cares. (She pays her therapist to care. It helps, but it doesn’t count.) In spite of herself, in spite of knowing better, she finds herself latching onto the thin thread of attraction and braiding it together with a few hours’ worth of conversation and Cam’s unwavering kindness into a cord of _longing_ that wraps around her torso and pulls so tight it digs into her flesh. "You’re only going to hurt yourself," Ianthe had warned her again, before she’d come over.

Ianthe had been right.


	6. Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were doing so well at keeping the spiciness contained, and then our fingers kind of slipped. It’s the last scene in the chapter, and if you’d prefer to skip it, you should be good if you stop at “There's an obvious solution, but Corona hesitates to use it” and pick back up at “She cannot afford to give Cam all the careless touches”.
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

The barbecues become a fixture in their lives. Weather permitting, they host one every first and third Sunday of the month. ("If we had a pavilion, we could be grilling right now," says Gideon gloomily, watching the downpour on the third Sunday in July. "I already told you that you can build one," Cam tells her.) When the guest list threatens to encroach upon Gideon’s tomato beds, Gideon helps take down the dilapidated fence between their house and Palamedes’s house, and they end up with a lot more space for lawn games.

They fire up the grill at 2PM and run it for four or five hours until everyone’s eaten too much and fallen into a stupor on lawn chairs to nap it off before they go home. Twice a month, Cam goes in to work on Monday morning with two extra shots of espresso hidden in her usual travel mug. It’s good enough, as long as she doesn’t have court.

She has court tomorrow.

So, when Corona drifts over to her about half an hour after the grill’s turned off and the crowd begins to thin, Cam can’t help the pang that shoots through her. They only get their late nights together twice a month, and Cam’s going to have to cut this one short. But the evening isn’t over yet, and Cam’s not going to ruin it by wanting more than she can have.

She falls into step next to Corona, where it’s easy to nudge her gently with a shoulder. It gets her a smile in return. They don’t have to talk about it; this is the same thing they always do. It's nice. There’s a bench out by the fire pit Gideon built two months back. It’s become their default place for their late night chatter, as long as the weather holds.

The wine and conversation have loosened Cam, her reticence and better judgement overcome by the easiness she feels around Coronabeth. It’s a lovely feeling, like a spoonful of honey stirred into hot tea: sweet, warm, and comforting. She’s a little bit tired from the day and Corona is a beacon in the night: bright, safe, and reliable. Leaning so her head comes to rest against Corona’s shoulder just feels right. 

"This OK?" she asks. It's the kind of intimacy she and Gideon have together, the kind of touches that don't necessarily mean anything more than two people reaching out for each other to prove they’re not alone.

And yes, Coronabeth’s breasts are right there and all it would take is to cast her eyes a little further downwards. It takes all Cam’s willpower and resolve not to look; even though no one would know, she doesn’t want to trespass. This thing she and Coronabeth have isn’t about that right now; it's far more intimate and precious, and she’s going to keep it that way. No, instead she closes her eyes and listens to the slow thump of Corona’s heart under her ear, waiting for an answer.

Corona moves her arm onto the back of the bench. "It's fine."

Her body says something different though. There’s tension throughout her shoulders and she’s visibly nervous. Cam can feel it; Corona isn’t at all relaxed. She sits back up. "Hey, what’s wrong?"

There’s a beat of silence where Corona’s eyes float a thousand yards away, lips pursed in thought. Eventually, she says, "The fire’s going out.”

That’s clearly not the issue if Corona’s inability to meet her eyes means anything, but Cam won’t press if Corona won’t give. "Let it." They’re not even going to be around for that much longer. Unfortunately.

"Come back." The flickering of dying flames casts a soft light against Corona’s cheeks. Her eyes are beautiful, Cam thinks. "You're warm."

Cam snuggles back in and lets her eyes fall closed. Corona’s warm too.

She doesn’t realize she’s drifted off until there’s a gentle shake on her shoulder. "Mmh?" Cam’s eyes open and she doesn’t immediately recognise where she is. "Cor?" She asks, disoriented. Violet eyes look back, widening slightly at the nickname. Cam’s caught herself before, using the affectionate nickname in the privacy of her own head, but this is the first time she’s made the mistake of using it out loud. 

"Your alarm is going off," says Corona softly. 

Cam makes an indistinct noise of acknowledgement and pulls away. Her cheek feels cold without Cor there to warm it.

"What's it for?"

Cam fumbles for her phone through the haze of drowsiness. "I have court tomorrow." She gets her hands on it and extinguishes the alarm. The swipe of her thumb also dismisses the sanctity of the moment. Reality comes pouring back in to fill the void like ice water on her face. "I have to get sleep tonight."

"You should get going, then. You seem tired." Cor runs her hand over Cam's back, just once, before pulling it sharply away, like Cam's stung her.

"Cor…" Cam looks at her friend, burnished in the light of the dying embers. "You know I'd rather stay, right?" It feels important for Corona to know this.

Corona shrugs a little but when she speaks, her voice is sweet and so is her smile. "Yes... but you have to go be somebody’s superhero tomorrow."

A matching smile spreads slow across Cam’s face and she allows herself just a moment to bask in the words. "Now, I wouldn’t go _that_ far." She feels warm, and it’s not the dying embers or Cor’s shoulder alone.

There's something hidden in Corona's eyes, but Cam can't see it through the shadows. "We could hang out later this week, maybe?" Corona suggests. "Watch a movie?"

Cam smiles. "I'd like that." 

* * *

Corona’s giddy with anticipation when she leaves the house on Tuesday night. She’s got a bag with a Blu-Ray disc, a bottle of wine, and a few other essentials-- a bag that’s been packed since she got home at 10:15PM after the barbecue, neatly tucked up inside her bra drawer. The preparation doesn’t stop the deluge of disaster scenarios filtering through her mind. Will the disc fail? What if Cam doesn’t like the red she’s chosen? Has she misunderstood the invitation, or gotten the time wrong?

(It’s not _rational_. She’s reasonably sure that Gideon’s video game console will play the disc. It’s not that she’s never been inside next door before. They pop into the kitchen all the time for Cam to mix them drinks. Besides, Cam has told her what kinds of reds she prefers, and Cor _knows_ she’s good at picking wines. The appointment is in her calendar, and it’s shared with Cam’s calendar, and she’s triple-checked it. None of that stops the _nerves_.)

But she’s not going to get anywhere if she keeps _worrying_ about it. She’s been looking forward to this for nearly 48 hours. It feels special. Momentous. Even if it’s just ringing the bell on the house right next door to her.

The strains of Yakety Sax echo off the inside walls. A very long twenty seconds later, Cam opens the door in a silk shell and a pencil skirt, the matching blazer folded over her arm. She looks sheepish. "Sorry about the doorbell," she says. "Gideon thinks she’s funny."

"It is kind of funny," says Corona. 

"Oh god, don’t tell her you think that," says Cam, stepping closer. "I’ll never get her to change it back."

"My lips are sealed," says Corona. "Where should I put--" She utterly loses track of the thought, because Cam’s hugging her, her chin tipped up in deference to Corona’s chest and her lips perfectly curved, dark with the lipstick Cam must use on court days. It would be so easy to bend her neck and kiss her. She absolutely can’t think those things, not when Cam’s body fits so perfectly in her arms, not when Cam is dating someone else. She leaves her heels next to Cam’s at the door and pads into the living room.

Utterly unconscious of the serpent of desire curled around Corona’s internal anatomy, Cam waves her hand in the direction of the dining room table. "Gideon left us some food." _Some food_ is an understatement. There’s a pile of sandwiches, an entire tray of vegetables complete with a selection of dips, a bowl of tortilla chips. Cam picks up a chip and crunches into it. 

"The homemade ones?" Cor asks, popping one into her mouth. 

Cam grins. "As always."

"I brought wine. Does Gideon think we’re actually going to eat all this?"

"She’ll finish it when she comes back from hockey practice."

"All of it?" Cor’s eyebrows wing up. There must be enough to feed at least six. "What do they _do_ at practice?" 

"Search me. Hey, do you mind?" she asks, reaching around her back. "It was a rough day at work."

"Do I mind--" Oh. Cam’s going to take her bra off. Corona can feel blood pounding in the strangest places-- the crook of her elbows, the vein on the inside of her thigh. But bras are awful, and Corona gets that. "No, that’s fine. Go ahead." 

It leaves Corona clutching the bottle as she watches Cam wriggle out of the bra, pulling the straps over one arm and then the other, all without taking the shirt off. As if there's no possible way in the universe the sight of Cam's nipples dark through silk will affect Corona.

Corona swallows hard against her own reaction. "Should I put on the movie or open the wine first?"

"I'd love some wine," says Cam, wadding black fabric up around the underwire. "You know where everything is."

Corona goes into the kitchen so Cam doesn’t catch her staring. This kitchen is practically the mirror of her own, with all the plates and glasses and kitchen equipment in different places. In a way it's more familiar than her own, because twice a month, she comes over here and makes drinks with Cam in it. She knows where the bottle openers are by now, plucks a pair of wine glasses off the shelf.

Back in the living room, Corona finds Cam sprawled over the couch with her legs crossed demurely at the ankle. Corona finds places amidst Gideon’s spread for the wine glasses, and then gestures with the bottle. "By rights, I should give this time to breathe."

Cam inclines her head. "Any thoughts on what you want to watch?"

Corona fidgets with the strap of her bag. "I brought a movie, but I didn’t know if you had anything in mind."

"We just have whatever’s streaming. What’d you bring?"

"Well, you’re a lawyer, right?" She pulls the Blu-Ray disc out of her bag. Legally Blonde. Maybe it’s a bit too on the nose, but she loves it. More importantly, she’s seen it at least a dozen times, so it doesn’t matter if her attention wanders elsewhere. Maybe that means she’s a glutton for punishment. Right now, she’s not sure she cares.

Cam hikes herself up on her elbows. "Did you seriously...?"

"I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to." Corona presses her thumbs into the sharp edges of the case. She’s overstepped.

"No, we’re watching this shit." Cam digs a controller out of the couch cushions while Corona slides the disc into the tray. She begins scrolling through the menu. "Is the wine ready?"

It isn’t, not really, but there’s a little divot in Cam’s forehead that Corona doesn’t like to see. And it’s a good wine-- a handful fewer minutes breathing won’t hurt it too much. Corona pours and passes over a glass. "Case not going your way?"

"Oh, it will," says Cam grimly. "It’s just going to take more work than I thought. The judge is an ass."

There’s no room on the sofa with Cam’s legs stretched out like that. Corona looks it up and down. "Where do I sit?"

Cam presses play and then pulls up her legs, clearing the seat near the other armrest, making room. 

Cor sits on the edge of the couch, arranging the bottom of her dress around her thighs before settling. She’s using her company manners, perfect posture on the edge of the sofa. It’s just a movie and wine, the nerves are excessive for an occasion such as this. She doesn’t want to intrude, especially after a day of work, but Cam seemed happy enough when she invited her in.

Cam grins at her. "Relax, it’s just me."

Corona flumps back against the cushions, lets all the tension go out of her shoulder blades and spine at the invitation. She belongs here. Cam said so.

Seconds later, Cam’s silky-smooth bare calves descend on Coronabeth’s lap. She freezes, fingers tight on the stem of the wineglass, hands held up like she’s surrendering. She has no idea where to rest them now that her thighs are full. 

"Shit-- sorry, I should have asked. Is this okay?" Cam jerks her legs back, displaying impressive core strength.

"No, yeah-- yeah no, this is fine." Corona presses down gently and lowers the legs back down on her lap. It feels astonishingly natural to set her hand on Cam’s shin. The opening scene plays and Cor absent-mindedly rubs her thumb over Cam’s leg.

"Your calves are really tight," she says. 

"Court day and court heels. Lethal combination."

Right, if there’s anything she’s good at, it’s working out knots in tight muscles. At least Ianthe tells her that much. It’s a point of pride. She digs her thumbs into the stiff muscle and kneads. This would be much easier if Cam was lying prone and Corona had full access to the backs of her legs, but she’ll make do with what she’s got. She’s good.

Good enough it draws a rumbling sort of purr from Cam. Corona glances up the sofa to make sure it’s the good sort of noise. Cam’s wiggling her shoulders deeper into the sofa, stretching her neck, sighing loudly. 

Nobody is allowed to tell her that life isn’t a photoshoot anymore. Not when every pose Cam unintentionally strikes looks like it belongs on a center spread. Apparently, dancers are just like this. Despite the grace, there’s a certain stiffness in Cam’s posture.

"Can I rub your back?" Cor asks, words coming out faster than her brain can process them. She hadn’t wanted to overstep boundaries, but it’s too late now. "You look sore."

Cam’s eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch and a slow smile curls up the corner of her lips. "Yes, _please_."

There’s a moment of awkwardness where Cam’s setting down her wine glass and twisting herself around to sit cross-legged in front of Cor. (Cor’s not looking at Cam’s chest. Or, she’s trying hard not to. It’s difficult when the silk shell moves like that across her breasts.)

Cor hesitates when her palms hover an inch off of Cam’s body. Cam shows neither nervousness nor trepidation. Cor’s hands wrap over Cam’s shoulders, thumbs resting at the base of her neck.

Oh God, Cam has muscles. Corona digs her thumbs in, and Cam shudders beneath her.

"Is that okay?" Cor asks. Meaning: is this a thing you do with your friends? 

"Mmmmm," says Cam. "Yes."

And Cor-- Cor doesn’t have the wherewithal to stop. Especially not when Cam’s head tips back onto Cor’s shoulder. Corona focuses hard on the film, which lasts for all of seven seconds until she realizes that Cam’s spine makes a perfect arch, that she’s thrown back one arm to create this graceful curve that Corona can’t look away from.

There’s a slight natural divot right by the edges of Cam’s shoulder blades and Cor rubs into it. The sound Cam makes is long and so lovely and Cor wants to spool it away to keep and listen to forever. 

"-- to be worthy at the end. Hey. You okay?"

Cor snaps back into reality, finally realising that Cam’s been talking to her. Has been talking for probably some time now. Her hands still. One of Cam’s palms finds its way to her knee and now it rests there, a comforting weight. "Uh, yeah. Sorry, zoned out for a moment."

The hand on her knee leaves and Cor feels like she can breathe again. Until it comes up over Cam’s shoulder to squeeze her hand. Cor’s heart lurches.

Oh, this has just gotten about a hundred times more complicated.

* * *

When Coronabeth gets home, she finds Ianthe waiting up for her. She does not want to have a conversation right now. Not when she’s like this.

Ianthe, however, beckons her over to the table. Corona considers begging off, retreating to her room. And then Ianthe will _really_ have questions for her.

Wearily, she slides into the other chair at the table.

"Did you have fun at your thing?" There’s a curl to Ianthe’s lip that indicates just how likely she finds that.

"Yes, actually," says Corona, though _fun_ isn’t remotely the right term. She doesn’t have the words to describe what she just did with Cam. Even if she did, she wouldn’t share them with anyone, let alone her sister.

Ianthe nods slowly. Her face is unreadable. She lets the silence stretch between them like pitch-- sticky and lightless. The only sound in the house is that of the clock ticking its steady, unfeeling seconds and the low hum of the lights.

"It just seems irresponsible to spend a work night out watching a movie." Ianthe purses her lips, tilts her head, shrugs. Impassive. "And Camilla is a lawyer, no less."

 _I wasn’t expecting someone impressive would want to spend their work nights with you._ Coronabeth understands. It stings. Moreover, she doesn’t know what to think of the sudden surge of indignation in her chest. What Cam does with her evenings is none of Ianthe’s business. 

Ianthe has returned to staring at her, hands clasped primly before her, as if waiting for a response.

"I really have to go to bed," says Corona, in her best PR voice, the kind that she uses right after a reporter has asked the question she’s been hoping the reporter won’t ask. She gets up from the table and proceeds up the stairs to her room. 

The door shuts behind her and all the tension unfolds from her shoulders down to her thighs. She clicks the lock and, at last, allows herself to _feel_. The smooth curve of Cam’s thigh on her palm-- the _noises_ Cam makes-- the way Cam tilts her head back when she’s particularly pleased.

It's bedtime, so Corona takes off her dress and hangs it up, unhooks her bra and stows it away, wads up her underwear-- damp, after she hadn't been able to tell Cam no because she hadn't _wanted_ to tell Cam no-- and throws them into the laundry.

Naked, she takes care of the rest of her bedtime routine, all the little things that keep Coronabeth Tridentarius looking like Coronabeth Tridentarius, brushes her teeth, and crawls into the bed between really good sheets. Her head is still full of Cam: Cam's silky hair on her shoulder, Cam's hand briefly on her knee.

She's never going to be able to get to sleep like this.

There's an obvious solution, but Corona hesitates to use it. She doesn't have Cam's permission-- quite the opposite; she has, from Cam herself, the knowledge that Cam is taken. Even if Cam will never know, it feels wrong.

For the second time that evening, Corona's ability to resist something to do with Camilla Hect lasts no longer than seven seconds. She draws her own fingers up the inside of her thigh-- the same long, manicured fingers Cam had enjoyed so much on her shoulder and back and neck.

It's not reasonable to imagine that Cam will know automatically where to touch her. But Corona is far past reason and accelerating, and besides, Cam is so good at everything else. Corona can't imagine a groping, uncertain first time for them.

Which means she's thinking about a relationship with Cam, the kind where Cam gets to know all of Corona's spots. Even Babs had never done that, and she was with him for two years. It strains credulity, and yet Corona can't stop imagining it, can't think about safely anonymous fingers when her head is full of dark eyes and dark nipples taut under silk.

Corona’s own breasts are phenomenal in a larger-than-life way. But Cam’s are mouthwatering, firm proportionate curves that make Corona’s palms itch to cup them.

Sometimes, when they’re on their bench at the cookouts, Cam puts her head on Corona’s shoulder. It’s so easy to think about how Cam could turn to her, press her torso and those perfect breasts hard against Cor’s side, slide her fingers up under Cor’s dress until she finds her wet and bare. She’d never do this in real life, but this is fantasy, with Cam’s sure fingers toying with the spots on either side of her entrance until Cor’s hips buck under the touch and then-- oh god-- curling her fingers inside--

It doesn't take her long, with the sheets slipping over skin that remembers how Cam leaned against her, and tingles with the memory.

She comes imagining Cam's voice echoing in her head. Saying her name, using the nickname no one else has ever given her. " _Cor_."

There's a wet spot under her, sweat dripping down her legs. She's breathing hard, breasts heaving in the aftermath of what her terrible crush has wrought on her body. This cannot continue.

She cannot afford to give Cam all the careless touches that Gideon would. Gideon, who is apparently immune to her gorgeous roommate, who touches Cam like a lover outside of bed, who apparently doesn't feel the same burning need Cor does to know what Cam's lips taste like.

So, this is her dilemma: Corona can’t continue touching Cam like this. It was sheer luck that she got out of the movie night without giving everything away. She can’t stop touching her cold turkey, either: that will make it weird. It’s obvious that Cam loves touches: she surrounds herself with physically affectionate people, and it would be cruel to both of them if she simply stopped. (The only part that doesn’t make sense is the presence of Palamedes in Cam’s life-- Corona is pretty okay with that.)

She needs some careful parameters for friendly touches. She's afraid if she gives herself an inch too much, she'll never stop touching Cam. She'll give away her secret. Even though Cam is clearly starving for contact, she'll never do anything to risk the things her friend has said she wants.

She opens her phone and starts a list.

> _squeeze her hand: twice per day._
> 
> _hugs: for greetings and goodbyes only._
> 
> _rub her shoulders: once a fortnight. make it count. ignore the way her chin tips back in pleasure when she relaxes. stop when she starts making The Noises._

  
It’s late and she’s comfortable. Her body heat has warmed up the space between the sheets and the mattress hollowed out a space that fits the curve of her spine perfectly. She’ll revisit them when she wakes. She’ll begin to abide by them come morning. For now, perhaps it isn’t so great a trespass to allow herself a few more minutes of indulgent thought before she drifts off to sleep.


	7. Tomatoes and Pavilion Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, we are late for our Sunday posting day. (Alas, real life intervened.)
> 
> We note that in spite of our best intentions, we have yet to update on a Sunday. Be assured that we have both an outline and several chapters written in advance.
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

Cam knows that the tomatoes are coming. Gideon has been very good about updating her on their status and showing her the biggest one. (She’s named it Gregory). She knows that the tomatoes are coming, and that there are many. 

Still, she’s a little unprepared for the first day, when Gideon brings in the laundry basket, half-full, and plops it onto the kitchen counter. Cam reaches out and picks one up, curious. The tomatoes are still warm from the sun, bright red and fresh.

"You plan on eating them all, along with all the rest that are about to come?" she asks.

"Not just us, I’m planning on canning some for the neighbors too. Between using them in cooking and sauces and as snacks, we’ll get through them all," Gideon says.

Cam thinks back to the time Gideon grabbed a tomato off the vine, rinsed it off with the hose, and bit into it like an apple. Right. "That’ll take some time."

Gideon’s smile grows wide. "That’s why I need your help. Do you have a moment?"

Cam looks down at her laptop. Today has not been a productive day, despite her best efforts, and her screen is largely unchanged from when she turned it on two hours ago. She sighs. An afternoon of canning won’t do her any harm. 

"Okay, show me how to help."

Gideon sets her to washing and chopping tomatoes for dinner while she gets out two pitchers, the immersion blender, and the strainer. "You're supposed to blanch and peel them," she says conversationally, as if Cam knows what that means. She fills a pitcher with tomato quarters and blends them into a pulp, then strains out all the seeds and chunks of skin. "This is easier."

By the time Gideon’s filled the stock pot with pureed tomato, the laundry basket still has a layer of tomatoes in the bottom. Cam raises an eyebrow. "Don’t you need that for laundry?"

"I need to simmer off some of the liquid," says Gideon. "I’ll get them later."

* * *

"Nav, are you dumping garbage in your own backyard?" Harrow’s skulking just on the other side of the property line that divides them. It’s hot, but she’s still wearing a vest and a long-sleeve button-down with _formal gloves_. Gideon will never understand her.

In addition to the seasonally inappropriate outfit, Harrow doesn’t usually voluntarily go outside. Palamedes has to drag her out to the barbecues. Though she usually ends up lingering after he leaves, so maybe it's an inertia thing. 

Gideon dumps the big bowl of discarded tomato guts onto the heap. "I’m composting?" It’s not very pretty, but it’s functional.

"Composting," Harrow repeats derisively.

"Composting," Gideon says again, more firmly this time. "If it's unfamiliar, you can look it up. There's a whole world out there on the internet."

"I am aware of the Internet." Harrow's lip curls under her makeup. (Seriously, who wears make-up to skulk around in their own backyard?)

Harrow’s eyes burn into Gideon’s and Gideon stands up to full height, propping the bowl against her hip. She stares back.

It sends her forcibly back to the seventh grade, when Gideon had been on the soccer team and Harrow had finally completed her slow descent into becoming the living embodiment of Goth. Harrow’s rage-filled eyes had drilled into her skull while her long nails had dug painfully into her arm in an effort to get her to blink. 

That was the closest they’d ever been to friends.

But Gideon is a grown-ass adult now, and she holds Harrow’s eyes for two beats longer before slowly, deliberately blinking, well before her eyes go dry. She doesn’t have to play Harrow’s games anymore.

Harrow humphs, turns, and returns to the house without a word, looking terribly self-satisfied. Gideon doesn’t understand what Harrow has to be smug about. 

She hoses out the bowl she’d used for the compost as Harrow makes her retreat. What a weirdo.

* * *

A few days later, Gideon crosses their backyard, yelling. "Cam? Cam!"

"Kitchen!" Cam calls out just as Gideon walks in through the Dutch doors that separate their kitchen from their patio.

"Oh, there you are," Gideon says. She’s wearing jeans. Not the nice ones-- her work jeans, with the knees busted out. Must have just come from the shack in the backyard. "Did you take my circular saw?"

That is not a question Cam was expecting. Woodworking is very much Gideon’s hobby, whereas Cam would be thrilled if she never had to step within six feet of a whirling blade or anything else that might kick back or hit her with wood shrapnel. "No, why would I?"

"It’s missing."

That certainly does not help assuage Cam’s wariness. "Could it just be lost?"

"Cam, it’s a _circular saw_ ," Gideon says, holding her hands shoulder-width apart to demonstrate the size of the tool. "It’s not small."

"Have you been locking the shed?"

"Yes.” Gideon slams a kitchen drawer open and begins riffling through the contents in frustration. “You know how I am about locks."

That much is true. Gideon would probably lock the door behind her to go put something in the compost pile on the other side of their backyard, even if it meant having to unlock it again to get back. Why one of her precious tools would go missing is strange, but Cam doesn’t want to let Gideon overthink it and go off on a conspiracy theory.

"Weird. Hey, what are you working on?"

Presumably because there aren’t any circular saws hidden next to the whisks and can openers, Gideon bumps the drawer closed again. "The plans for the pavilion."

Not what Cam expected, but even though she’s already lost this argument once-- "Do we _really_ need a pavilion?"

"I thought it would make us-- more polite hosts. For the barbecues. There could be picnic tables, and we wouldn't have to move the lawn furniture all the time, and maybe fewer of our guests would get sunburned." (Cam has laid in a stockpile of emergency sunscreen for just this reason. It's a lot more moderate than building a whole pavilion.)

Now that Gideon mentions it, Cam can place the conversation. Harrow had been complaining bitterly about the weather, and Corona had suggested that Harrow could just stay indoors if she didn't like the sun. This appears to have caught in Gideon's mind. That happens sometimes, and Cam will come home to find either something truly inspired, or a smoking ruin. 

Now, heading into autumn, their barbecues are enough of an institution that even Ianthe comes sometimes. (Corona pretends she doesn't mind. Cam can't figure out how to politely disinvite her. Even if she could, she suspects that doing so would just make it worse.)

Well. A pavilion. They have the space for it.

“Don’t you have enough projects? With the secret one?” Cam jabs Gideon with her elbow, even though they’re alone in the kitchen. She’s making Palamedes a bespoke D&D table for the holidays.

Gideon shrugs. "This one will take a while. Next season, I’m thinking. It’ll be permanent, you know? I want to get this right."

Cam gives an understanding nod. "It _will_ be nice for the cookouts," she agrees. 

* * *

On Sunday-- a barbecue Sunday-- Gideon brings home copy-shop printouts of her pavilion plans and Cam helps her tack them up in the shed.

The physical copies make the entire project feel more real, even if Gideon almost certainly won't be able to start construction until spring.

It feels good, like she's making her mark on the household and truly contributing. Doing more than just paying rent.

* * *

Cam’s leaning against the railing of the porch, looking out into the backyard, when Cor finds her. Once again, the barbecue has wound down and the sticky summer night air sticks to Cor’s arms. She’s warm with the food, the company, the sun that’s gone down barely half an hour ago. 

Cor holds out a glass filled with a cloudy yellow drink. "Here." Usually Cam makes the drinks, but Cor’s got a few tricks up her sleeve she’s willing to show off. "Moscow Mule."

Cam smiles, pleasantly surprised, and takes the glass. Cor peels herself off the kitchen door jamb and silently beckons Cam to the firepit. Cam follows half a step behind, their steps in perfect sync. She throws a piece of wood into the fire before sitting. Flames dance up the new log, sending embers up into the night sky.

Cor snuggles into her corner of the swinging bench, one knee tucked up to her chest. 

"How did you know I liked them?" Cam asks. "Moscow Mules, I mean."

Cor shrugs. "I’m good at reading people, I guess." That, and Cor might have spent a little bit of time scrolling through Cam’s social media. She had recognised the iconic copper cup in a photo seven years back and she’s confident in her ability to make one. Still, a slight nervousness flutters up into her throat when Cam takes her first sip.

Cam blinks, her head cocking to the side. "Oh, that’s," she says, and then takes another sip. "That’s really good."

A smile spreads across Corona’s face. "Thank you."

Cam takes another sip, licking her lips. "Where did you learn?"

"Bottle service girl," Cor answers, cradling her own drink between her hands. "College. It helped pay the bills. It was a little scandalous. Local church choir girl working in a den of sin." Cor wiggles her eyebrows salaciously.

Cam nods, but there’s a curiosity in her eyes now.

Cor laughs. "What?"

"Can I..." Cam’s cheeks flush a slight shade of pink. "Do you have photos?"

Oh, Corona _absolutely_ has photos. She tugs out her phone and begins to look for them, distracted every so often by the bashful-looking smile Cam’s wearing over the top of her phone. There are dozens and dozens of photos. Pictures of her in black suits, branded crop tops, bathing suits from the year she worked summer pool parties, and everything in between. She holds her phone out for Cam to take.

Cam keeps an impressively neutral face as she scrolls through the photos, but Corona wasn’t lying when she said she’s good at reading people. The corner of Cam’s lips are ever so slightly pinched and it brings Cor no small amount of satisfaction that she can have these little things to file away in her memory for later, even if she can’t have Cam.

Cam has on a brave poker-face when she hands Cor the phone back. "Those outfits, uh, probably a big hit, huh?" Her eyes drift down Cor’s chest before Cam realises what she’s doing and pulls them back up. 

It’s cute, and two can play at that game. Cor gives Cam’s chest a meaningful look. "You say you bartended in college. Did you get a lot of that?"

"Hmm?" Cam follows her eyes and shrugs. "Oh, I mean, some, but if they were really blatant I’d just give them the look." She sips at her drink.

"The look?"

"You know, the look."

Cor leans forward and shakes her head no, hugging her leg as she raises an eyebrow. "Show me?"

"It’s not a nice look," Cam warns.

"Maybe, but I want to see it." Cor sits back, puts her leg down and tucks it underneath her. The chair sways. To the side, the fire crackles and another stream of embers and sparks float up into the air. The new log is white on one side with ash, and the flames that lick up its edges bathe Cam in a soft orange light. "I want to know you, even the parts that aren’t nice."

Cam’s face is unreadable in the face of such bald-faced honesty. "I mean, if you’re sure."

Cor smiles gently. "Please?"

Cam closes her eyes and her brow furrows in concentration, like she’s pulling the face from the depths of her memory. Her lips slowly lift into a smile. Her chin tips up and she laughs, a short, abrupt thing, eyes still closed. "This is so weird."

Cor’s own face splits with a grin. "Come on, you’ve got this!"

"You’re _nice_ , though," Cam says, and schools her face back into impassiveness. When she opens her eyes again, they’re ice cold, devoid of any sort of friendliness. They’re also fire hot, simmering with a rage just barely kept tamed, a threat.

It sends a delicious shiver up Cor’s spine. She breathes in sharply through her nose and hopes it comes off as impressed. "You look like you’re going to pull a knife on me and flay me to hang on the rafters."

The expression drops off of Cam’s face, and she replaces it with an amused smile. Shrugging, she works her jaw. "That’s the point."

Cor looks at Cam. Lets the silence hang between them. "Could you? Hang me on the rafters?"

Cam meets her gaze and holds it. It’s almost better than the Look. "Yes."

"You’re amazing." Cor can’t help her grin.

Cam snorts, looking down into her drink. "You’re not supposed to like that."

Cor thinks about her words, tries them around in her mouth before finding the right ones. "I mean, I don’t _want_ you to do that . But you _could_. _I_ couldn’t," she says, awe in her voice.

Cam smiles and shrugs, looking away into the distance. Against the background of the stars, she is both beautiful and untouchable. Cor knows this and has still caught herself thinking about it four times over the course of the evening. She knows she can’t have Cam in any of the ways she wants, but she gets to have these wee hours. It is almost enough.

* * *

Their kitchen smells like tomato for weeks. The turkey roaster comes out of the closet and moves into a place of prominence on the counter. 

"You could get a canner," Cam points out, eyeing the jury-rigged water bath with some trepidation.

"Then I’d have to store a canner," Gideon says, screwing the top onto a mason jar. "Meanwhile, this works. And I can use it for roasting turkeys. And sous vide."

Cam can’t remember the last time Gideon attempted sous vide-- it was definitely before they moved in, though Gideon has carefully organized and stowed the equipment. She lets it slide.

Even the turkey roaster is stretched to capacity. Gideon freezes the excess red sauce and soup base in gallon ziplock bags, vibrant paving slabs taking up significant room in their freezer. 

By the time Gideon moves the laundry basket back to its permanent home in the upstairs closet, Cam thinks she’d be happy if she didn’t see another tomato until the new year.

Meanwhile, Gideon’s sticking labels onto the jars with masking tape and a sharpie. It seems superfluous when Gideon’s got an entire pantry organizational system separating the different batches of tomato product. Cam inquires, as gently as she can.

"Of course I know what’s in the pantry," says Gideon. "But these are for our _neighbors_."

Cam has some private doubts about whether Palamedes knows what to do with red sauce. She’s seen the inside of the cupboards next door, and it’s rows of meal replacements and nutrition bars. And she wouldn’t be surprised if the Tridentarii subsist entirely on takeout and restaurant meals. They seem the type.

Nevertheless, she allows Gideon to drag her along when she goes next door. It’ll be good to see Corona, if she’s home. Of course, Cam could just text. But that seems like too gross of an imposition. She isn’t sure if she has the standing to do that.

So, instead, she stands on the Tridentarius front porch as Gideon rings the bell. It rings out, the classic melody associated with Big Ben.

"Ours is better," says Gideon, who-- in spite of Cam’s repeated requests-- still hasn’t fixed the Yakety Sax. 

"There is a middle ground," says Cam.

The door opens, forestalling further argument.

Ianthe Tridentarius glares at them. "Yes?"

Gideon proffers a reusable shopping bag from the local grocery store loaded with a trio of mason jars and several ripe tomatoes, picked within the last half hour. "We had a good harvest this year."

The interaction grows progressively more icy as Ianthe stands there, making no move to take the bag. Even Gideon’s irrepressible smile droops off her face.

Salvation comes rushing down the main staircase in a clatter of bangles. "Cam! Gideon!" cries Coronabeth.

"They were just leaving," says Ianthe.

"O-oh, okay." Cor’s face falls until she sees the mason jars. "What are those?"

Gideon’s face lifts back up into brilliant cheer. "Red sauce and tomatoes from our backyard. Our gift to you."

Ianthe nods sharply now that her sister has arrived and disappears into the house. Cor watches her vanish, and then gives Gideon and Cam an apologetic look. "Thank you, this is very kind."

"Okay... that was weird," Gideon says when the door closes and they head across the cul-de-sac to Harrow and Palamedes’s place.

Cam nods. To be fair, she hasn’t interacted with Ianthe Tridentarius very much so this could be simply a bad day. Regardless, there’s one more house to deliver to.

Palamedes opens the door and Harrow hovers in the hallway, a ghostly apparition in the background.

"Hey," Cam says warmly and pulls Palamedes into a hug. He pats her back awkwardly and Cam relinquishes the hold. "We brought you two something."

Gideon helpfully holds out the jars. 

Pal takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve before putting them back on. "Um, thank you. What... what is this for?" He takes a jar and rotates it in his hands. Cam refuses to believe that he doesn’t at least _recognise_ red sauce. He practically lived off of food hall carbs in university.

"It’s red sauce. You eat it? With food?"

"Food?" Harrow asks skeptically from her place three paces back. Even for Harrow, she’s particularly cagey today.

"Yes, Harrow, _food_ . You need to eat food every day," Gideon deadpans. "You... _do_ eat every day, don’t you?"

"That’s none of your business, Nav," Harrow bites off the words.

Gideon shrugs. "Maybe I’m just concerned for your health, Harrow. It’s not that deep."

Harrow scoffs. "No, you’re not."

"If you died, we’d need to find a new caster," Gideon points out. "Also, your noodle arms depress me."

Harrow doesn’t dignify that with a response. Neither does Palamedes, who is holding the jar up to the light that comes through his door.

"Whatever, gloom mistress," Gideon says, into the silence. "We’re leaving now." It’s almost a dare, like Gideon wants Harrow to follow her.

Palamedes mutters something, tracing his finger on the glass. With her eyes boring into Cam’s head, Harrow pushes him back inside and closes the door silently.

Now it’s Cam’s turn to ask: "Okay, Harrow was weird back there, right?"

Gideon nods as they walk back to their house. "Maybe we’re the weird ones. Maybe they’re conspiring to throw us out? Or, or maybe aliens--"

"Okay," Cam says, slinging her arm over Gideon’s shoulder and squeezing her bicep. "Probably not aliens. But _if_ it’s aliens, I’m counting on you to offer them food in exchange for our lives."

Gideon laughs, bright and loud. She squeezes Cam back in a side hug. "Yeah, okay, and when they kidnap me to cook for them forever, you gotta use your big brain to lawyer me back home."

Cam snorts and rests her head on Gideon’s shoulder all the way back into the house.

* * *

Once the tomatoes slow down toward the end of the season, Gideon clears an evening to work on the plans for the pavilion. She'll make a materials list and a budget. She steps into the shed and decides she needs a second pair of eyes if she's going to believe what she's found.

Cam isn't thrilled to be pulled away from the documents she’s organizing, but she allows Gideon to pull her along to the shed.

"My circular saw is back," says Gideon, darkly.

"I'm glad you found it."

"Found it? I came in and it was _right in the middle of my workbench._ It’s not like it was lost. Someone’s been breaking into my shed. And look at this!" She pulls a sticky note off of the pavilion plans and passes it over.

Cam takes it gingerly. _Mounting points for detachable sun shade for southern exposure_ , it says in 12-point Times New Roman. It’s accompanied by a computer-generated schematic.

It actually looks like a pretty good idea, but Gideon is fuming, so Cam zips her lips. 

"I don’t suppose you know anything about this?" Gideon asks hopefully. “If you want to use my tools, I can just give you a key to my shed.”

Cam puts the sticky note back. "We both know that I’d never go through the trouble of printing out a sticky note."

Gideon takes the note and begins to scrutinize it as if that will tell her who put them up, and Cam leaves her to her things. She hopes Gideon takes the detachable sun shade idea.


	8. Dinner, Drinks, and Doorbells

They’re in the kitchen in late September. Gideon’s got ground beef sizzling in a pan, the scent of spices filling the room. Cam’s sitting with the kitchen table safely between her and Tropical Storm Gideon, finishing up some work before dinner. It’s taco night, and there’s already a row of Gideon’s experimental hot sauces on the table. Cam is looking forward to putting her work away and trying them.

Therefore, it takes her off guard when Gideon glances back over her shoulder and asks, slyly, "Hey Cam, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?"

Cam knows that tone of voice. "Aren’t you going to Magnus and Abigail’s?" she asks pointedly, instead of answering. 

"Well, yeah, but I thought we could do a thing, too," says Gideon, petulant after Cam catches her out.

"We host barbecues." Cam drums her fingers on the table. Gideon puts a plate containing a pair of tacos in front of her and goes to assemble her own. "Isn’t that enough?"

"I want to roast a turkey," says Gideon. "Turkey sandwiches, Cam! And we can send Palamedes home with the leftovers, so that they eat real food for a bit."

Cam keeps her face carefully neutral; if she suggests out loud that Gideon wants to feed Harrow, Gideon might recoil. It’s utterly transparent to everyone except, apparently, for Gideon. "Can we keep it small, then?"

"Palamedes and Harrow, Coronabeth and--" Gideon pauses and makes a face-- "and Ianthe?"

That’s about how Cam feels about Ianthe, too, but she can’t see a way out of inviting her if they invite Cor. And they have to invite Cor. "And a _small_ turkey, okay?"

Gideon beams. "A small turkey, I promise."

* * *

"Where are you going, Coronabeth?"

Cor freezes in the foyer. She was hoping that her sister wouldn’t be around to question her this time around, but there Ianthe is, sitting at the dining table with a particularly unlikeable facial expression on.

Clearing her throat, Cor faces her twin. "To Gideon and Camilla’s place. They’re having a cookout again."

They’ve become a fixture in Cor’s life, taking up every first and third Sunday of the week. Cor gets home from church with Ianthe and goes upstairs to shower and put on a more appropriate ensemble and redo her makeup into something decidedly more sultry than what she’d wear to service. When two o'clock rolls around, she goes to Gideon and Cam’s to eat and chat the rest of the day away. Today’s the last one of the season. The temperature is chilling and rain has started threatening their twice-a-month ritual.

Thus far, Ianthe has refrained from commenting on this new habit but like most Tridentarii, she undoubtedly has opinions. Coronabeth isn’t sure she wants to hear them.

Ianthe smiles. Coronabeth doesn’t like the tinge of pity she detects in the curve of lips. "Are you sure they don’t need a break from you?"

Coronabeth spends her hours at work in front of faces and cameras that scrutinise her every reaction. Her expression remains neutral. Her stomach bottoms out.

Ianthe pats the table beside her. "Everything in moderation, sweetheart."

Coronabeth walks over, pulls out the chair, and sits in silence. She laces her fingers together and rests her hands on the table. She did her nails earlier for tonight. There’s a tiny chip in the corner and she resists the urge to pick at it. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She doesn’t look.

Ianthe makes no effort at conversation and taps at her phone for what feels like forever before she disappears up the stairs silently. The moment Ianthe is out of sight, Corona pulls out her phone. 

Three text messages. One from Gideon, two from Cam.

Cor stands and walks to the door. She’s late.

* * *

They haven’t forgotten her. Gideon has a plate of skewers with her favorite marinade ready to grill when she arrives. There’s a chair waiting for her, and Harrow perches nearby, heckling Gideon during the grilling process. According to Harrow, she's just missed Palamedes, which would bother her more if it didn't mean that she gets to stick shamelessly by Cam's side for the rest of the barbecue.

Gideon’s eyes are warm and Cam’s arms are warmer when she gets a hug upon entry.

"Glad you could make it." And that’s that.

* * *

The metal fixtures of their bench are cold, and Corona’s grateful for the fire that Gideon set up before she went inside to catch up on her latest video game. Everyone else went home hours ago, the chill air chasing them away. As usual, Corona has forgotten her sweater, and goosebumps dot her arms.

The cold would be meaningless with Cam by her side, except Corona can’t get Ianthe’s words out of her head. "Still having fun?" she murmurs. If Cam says ‘no’, she can pretend it’s about the chill air.

But Cam’s cheeks are flushed bright with alcohol in the firelight, and she tips her face up to Corona’s. "Of course I am."

Corona’s lungs expel every molecule of oxygen they contain. She could kiss Cam right now, Palamedes be damned. And then Cam would hate her forever. Instead, she turns her head to stare into the dancing flames.

Cam presses against her side, silky hair tucked up under her chin, and Cor puts her arm around her, because Cam has goosebumps, too. Gideon does this all the time, Corona has learned, at D&D and when she’s around for one of their movie nights. For Cam, this is just how friends touch. This has got to count against her metered allowance of touching Cam, but it’s too cold for her to make herself stop.

"I’m sorry," she says, knowing it’s abrupt. She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for-- her untoward thoughts, her sister, her continual intrusion into Cam’s little family.

Cam doesn’t even open her eyes, lashes outlined dark against her cheeks. "What for?"

Cor hesitates. "Usually people say I have-- a big personality." When they ask her not to come back, she means. 

"We like your big personality." Cam nuzzles sleepily into Corona’s collarbone, sparking sensation. Corona’s nipples go taut. Ah. Well, Cam is a woman of taste and discernment, and Corona has some of the biggest and best ‘personality’ going. And-- Gideon never makes a pass, but Corona catches her looking sometimes, and Gideon’s apologetic about it.

So she’s welcome here as decoration. It’s still worth it. She forces herself to take a slow breath, because Cam can certainly feel every rise and fall of her chest against her cheek. Willing her heart to beat slower, she blinks hard into the firelight. It’s just smoke.

"Hey, are you free after Thanksgiving?" Cam’s breath is visible in the cold night air, warm against Corona’s skin.

Cor nods. "I visit my family the weekend of. With Ianthe. But after that, I’m mostly free."

"We’re having Friendsgiving the weekend after," Cam says. Cor’s heart leaps into her throat. "You should come if you can. You know... you and Ianthe."

The truth is, after this afternoon, Cor doesn’t want Ianthe to come. Her sister has made her dismay at Corona’s choice to socialize with their neighbors clear. She doesn’t want to extend an invitation and face the consequences of Ianthe’s answer-- the awkward interaction if Ianthe goes, the differently-awkward interaction if she doesn’t. She could just not extend the invitation, could decide not to disturb the status quo.

"I’ll think about it," she says.

She’s welcome here, and she has Cam beside her. She can’t ask for more.

* * *

Harrow has her knees tucked up against her chest at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings, playing the tinny-chimes version of the Addams Family theme. “Your doorbell is terrible,” she tells Gideon, who’s busy juggling a small forest of pots on the stovetop.

“I programmed it to celebrate your attendance, night empress,” Gideon tells her. 

Camilla, a bastion of good sense, groans theatrically, and then ruins it by saying, “I never thought I’d miss Yakety Sax.” She goes to answer the door.

A minute later, Coronabeth comes in with a basket of steaming-hot dinner rolls, two bottles of wine, and an assortment of chocolate truffles. "Ianthe had a conflict," she says breezily. 

The bread looks homemade. Harrow went to a bakery and bought the pies she’s brought, like any normal person.

For once, the blonde’s wearing seasonally-appropriate outerwear, a long wool jacket in a color that reminds Harrow of blood but is probably called _autumn zest_ or something equally insipid.

Naturally, she immediately takes it off and hands it to a beaming Camilla, revealing a low-cut cream-colored top. The ruffles around the neckline do absolutely nothing to disguise her assets, and the only thing that preserves Harrow’s dignity is the way that every other pair of eyes in the room-- Cam’s, Gideon’s, and even Palamedes’s-- all go to the cleavage like moths to a lamp at midnight. It’s thin comfort, because Gideon welcomes her into the kitchen after Cam hugs her hello.

"We’re going to eat in the dining room, if you want to put things there," says Gideon, pointing with a magenta-stained wooden spoon. "I’m just finishing up here."

Pots crowd the stovetop-- squash and cranberries, potatoes and gravy and almonds toasting to go on top of green beans. Gideon always makes too much food. Harrow glares as Gideon prods the sizable turkey with a thermometer and, satisfied, transfers it out of the oven onto the kitchen counter. She pulls off her oven mitts and washes her hands in the sink, something she’s done seven times in the fifteen minutes that Harrow has unwillingly been here.

When Corona comes back into the kitchen, Gideon has taken the spoon back up and begun stirring something. She makes a face, and then sticks her ring finger straight into the pot, which has to be a violation of some food safety law. "Hey Cam, c’mere," she says. "Taste this."

Cam moves smoothly into the kitchen and takes Gideon’s finger into her mouth. Palamedes takes his glasses hastily off and starts polishing them on his sleeve. Corona freezes in the doorway opposite. Harrow can’t take her eyes off Gideon’s hand, off the finger that pops out of Cam’s mouth clean.

Cam, who is normally observant, sees none of this. Backing away again before Gideon’s bad kitchen manners can get her, she hums pensively. "Needs nutmeg," she says.

Gideon puts a different finger into the pot and then into her own mouth. She tilts her head. "You’re right." She washes her hands again and then reaches for the spice rack.

Thankfully, Gideon refrains from any further demonstrations of wanton familiarity during the rest of the meal preparation. At last, Cam herds them into the dining room, where Gideon piles far too much food onto Harrow’s plate. 

To Harrow's vast irritation, the cranberry chutney really does taste amazing.

* * *

“You got Gideon to fix the doorbell?” asks Corona as they move the leftovers back into the kitchen.

“For a given value of ‘fixed’,” says Cam. “It’s the third different one this week. First one I’ve actually recognized, though.”

Gideon has her hands up to soapy elbows in the sink. “I’m a genius, it’s true.”

Harrow’s mouth curls. “You can do better, Griddle.”

"Gideon," says Cam, to forestall further doorbell debate. She eyes the turkey carcass Gideon is stripping. "That was not a small turkey."

"I didn’t want to run out," Gideon tells her, carving slices of breast into a container for Palamedes, who has a commitment that means he has to leave before dessert. "It’s not a big turkey, either."

This has the feeling of an argument Harrow wants no part of. She escapes out to the living room, where Corona has sprawled over one end of the sofa and begun thumbing through Cam’s Netflix queue. 

Harrow can hear Palamedes making his goodbyes from the kitchen. She really should go, too, but she feels full and slothful. She perches carefully in the middle of the couch, which turns out to be a grave tactical error when Gideon sprawls down next to her, as if she’s not the person who stole Harrow's pens in class, the person whose arm Harrow dug her nails into in retaliation. The person whose gym shorts she soaked in the sink, the person who spiked a volleyball into her face that same class while in jeans. Hands caught in lockers, water bottles not-so-accidentally knocked over.

Apparently, all that history is no match for a few months around the D&D table. Harrow counts in her head and realizes, horrified, that it’s been nearly a year. Mulling that over, she tucks her stockinged feet up onto the edge of the couch and hunches back into the cushions.

Cam stands across the room with her hand on her hip. "You can’t possibly wear that to movie night, Cor, it’ll get wrinkled to hell."

Corona puts down the controller. "I didn’t bring anything else."

"You always do this," Cam tells her. "Hang on." She disappears up the stairs. Harrow squints after her, but she still can’t quite read her. Anyway, Gideon has taken up the controller and chosen a movie. It’s _The Last Sharkado: It’s About Time_ , the sixth movie in the series.

"Shouldn’t you wait for Cam to come back?"

"She’s seen this before," says Corona, lips curling up at the edges. "Oh, Gideon, you’re _evil_."

Harrow doesn’t see what’s so evil about an action flick, but she doesn’t ask because Cam comes back downstairs wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a thin tank top with absolutely nothing under it. Apparently it’s going to _be that_ kind of party.

Cam throws a bundle of violet fabric at Corona, and Corona catches it. "Put that on," Cam instructs her. "You’re making me feel strangled just looking at you."

"Cam--" says Corona, unfurling the fabric until they can all tell it’s some kind of camisole.

"It’s nothing," says Cam gruffly. "You always forget to wear something comfortable. And _warm_."

Harrow is obscurely glad she’s not the only one who’s noticed that Corona never wears enough clothing.

Corona gets up to change in the powder room, and Cam puts the remains of the last bottle of wine and a pitcher of sangria on the table before unrepentantly stealing Corona’s seat.

Corona comes back in the violet top, which covers all the relevant bits. There is, Harrow can’t help noticing, quite a lot of both cleavage and jiggle. She cuts a sharp glance over at Gideon, who has a particular reputation for enjoying both of those things.

Gideon’s eyes snag only briefly on Corona’s neckline before she leans back comfortably onto the sofa. Harrow doesn’t know if she’s annoyed or impressed.

"You took my seat," Corona is saying to Cam, but she’s laughing as she says it.

"So sit next to me," Cam says, not budging an inch.

There really isn’t enough space between Cam and Harrow, especially not for a Corona-sized person, but Corona wedges sideways into it anyway, her torso in Cam’s lap and her legs over the rest of the sofa-- Harrow curls back farther into the back of the couch-- and Gideon puts a big hand on Corona’s shin.

"It's one of your favorites," Corona is telling Cam. Usually, she can keep a straight face. Not this time. Harrow consults her tabulation of who's had too much to drink and comes up with a tally-- three glasses of wine. That doesn't seem like enough, not for a woman the size of Coronabeth, but she's certainly not moderating herself the way she does at the barbecues, either, and she's refilling a round of glasses.

Harrow herself has had a full glass of wine, and is feeling it in spite of all the food. (Her size, at least, is not her fault, and it almost never presents an impediment. It's even an asset, as it is now, when they’re trying to squeeze four adult women onto a couch meant to hold only three. Gideon keeps spilling over into Harrow's space. In the spirit of Friendsgiving, Harrow decides to ignore the incursion.)

As Harrow settles into the movie, Cam begins muttering under her breath about the problems inherent in using time travel as a narrative device.

"I'm surprised you're not bothered, too," Gideon murmurs to Harrow, looking as though Cam's color commentary is the real entertainment.

Someone has refilled Harrow's sangria again. She takes a sip, wondering how to account for this in her tally. "There is such a thing as suspension of disbelief, Griddle," she says haughtily. "And that action sequence was actually quite well done."

She looks at the screen again. Now that she looks closer, that's overstating the technical competence of the production team by a considerable margin. "It's entertaining, anyway," she adds, in hope that it sounds like a clarification rather than a correction.

"Sure, Harrow," says Gideon. With her eyes crinkled up like that, they might even be a normal color, like light brown or hazel, instead of warm gold.

Harrow rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to the film. It really is very bad, but the stream of complaints coming from Cam reminds her of Palamedes and she's warm and fed and just a little bit drunk.

It's pleasant, actually, though she has no intention of ever admitting that aloud. Certainly not in the presence of Gideon.

* * *

Some time later-- not too long, because the movie is still running, and it is only 90 minutes long-- Harrow wakes up, horrified to find her cheek mashed up against Gideon's bicep.

There’s conversation going on and Harrow peels herself off Gideon, rubbing her eyes. The alcohol makes her limbs sluggish.

Gideon is clearly drunk, too, slurring her words a little. "God, Cor, you're so much fun, wanna hang out with you more." That’s Gideon all over-- putty in the hands of any girl who shows her twenty seconds’ worth of attention.

Cor giggles, leaning over Harrow to rub Gideon’s flame-red hair. Harrow’s stomach twists. "That’d be nice," she says. Harrow can’t tell if she’s just as inebriated as the rest of them.

"Wish you were on my hockey team."

"That sounds amazing." Corona's voice goes wistful. "I always used to want to play hockey."

"Yeah, you should play. You’d look really good in the gear and ‘s a lot of fun," Gideon says, and stretches. She kicks Harrow with one leg and the other falls off the couch. Harrow shoves weakly at the leg half-planted on her thigh but makes no more attempt to free herself from Gideon’s limbs. 

Cam gets up to pour them all another round of sangria. Evidently, it’s not a choice, even though Harrow is beginning to wonder if she still possesses the ability to get back to her own house through the short expanse of backyard. It is really good sangria.

As Cam goes to sit back down, she tugs down her tank top, which has ridden up.

"Hey," says Coronabeth, who in Cam’s absence is partially draped over the far end table. The wineglass in her hand tips at a precarious angle. "Don’t. You’re fuzzy." She reaches out a long, elegant hand to the hem of the shirt and pulls it up again, revealing a thin but distinct line of dark hair that leads down past the elastic waistband of her flannel pants.

Cam flushes. "Cor--"

"It’s nice," insists Coronabeth. And then, sitting up-- "Come back."

It takes a Herculean feat of willpower to ignore the way Corona’s hands linger in the liminal space between Cam’s pyjama top and pyjama bottom. Harrow manages for the duration of the movie.

There is no more color commentary. Cam seems mysteriously distracted. Harrow doesn’t know how to feel about the loss.

She’s drowsy by the time the movie ends, loath to move even as Coronabeth heaves herself unsteadily off the sofa. "Ianthe is going to kill me," she mumbles, even as Cam’s hands reach out and tangle with hers before letting go. "I need to change."

No one else moves. Harrow could probably get up, but she’d have to fight Gideon’s leg off of her, and as much as she hates to admit it, she’s comfortable. Gideon doesn’t seem inclined to move, either. She’s managed to find another controller, and she’s cueing up another movie. 

Sluggishly, Cam passes the pitcher across Harrow to Gideon. It’s full of water now, not alcohol. Gideon fills her own glass, considers, and then fills Harrow’s as well. As if Harrow can’t operate a pitcher of water. Honestly, some people have no faith.

The dregs of the sangria stain the water faintly pink, but Harrow drinks it anyway. It’s lukewarm and doesn’t help with her torpor.

It’s just one more movie, she reasons with herself. It’s only ten o’clock, and that isn’t even late.

But she’s warm and comfortable and drunk. She never finds out how the movie ends.

* * *

Coronabeth stares at her phone. She’s got the draft of a text message to Cam open on the screen. _We need to talk_ , it says, which sounds ominous and also oversteps the careful boundaries of their relationship. She deletes the message, unsent, and checks the clock instead. Ianthe is out on her own mysterious business, it’s Sunday at two, and even though it isn’t a barbecue week Cam is home, probably.

It’s probably not polite, but it’s better than sending a terrible text message. Corona slips out the back door of her house, lets herself through the fence, and crosses the lawn to knock on the back door of Cam’s.

Cam answers it. She’s wearing yoga pants and a smile, both of which Corona deeply appreciates. "Hey, how are you holding up today? Harrow had a pretty rough night last night."

"Did she get home?" asks Corona, curious in spite of herself. She’s beginning to get too old to drink like that, even with the three glasses of water she’d consumed before she fell asleep. Church that morning had been a careful dance to hide her mild dehydration from Ianthe. At Cam’s gesture of invitation, Corona takes a seat at the kitchen table.

Rummaging in the refrigerator, Cam shakes her head. "She spent the night on the couch, right where she was when you left. Gideon had to peel her off to feed her breakfast this morning. Want some?" She holds several tupperwares of yesterday’s leftovers aloft, and then starts spooning some of the contents onto a plate.

Corona declines. She’s tied her stomach up in knots. "About last night. I was pretty drunk."

"We all were." Cam puts her plate into the microwave. "Thank you for the wine, by the way."

"Your sangria was also amazing," Corona says fervently, before remembering that she has a point to get to. "I wanted to apologize."

"For bringing fantastic wine?" Cam drifts around the kitchen while the microwave whirrs, stowing containers away and putting kitchen utensils in a neat pile in the sink.

"I get really touchy-feely when I’m drunk." There’s a loose thread in the hem of her sleeve. She tugs on it. "I touched you too much last night, and I’m sorry."

Cam goes still. Then she puts the spatula in her hand down on the counter and sits down at the kitchen table across from Coronabeth. Catches up her hands and looks her straight in the eyes. "You never have to apologize for touching me," says Cam, gaze as dark and steady as an underground lake. Looking into it makes Coronabeth want to drown.

Corona’s memory of the previous evening is a little hazy, but she has distinct memories of the hair low on Cam’s belly and of her own fingers dipping a torturous fraction of an inch under the elastic to see whether the trail continued down. (It had, she remembers, and the force of recollection had kept her up alone in her bed for long enough to finish that third glass of water.)

Behind them, the microwave beeps that it’s finished heating Cam’s lunch. They both ignore it. 

"But," Cam adds, after it becomes clear that Corona can’t find words to answer her, "if you feel like you need to make up for something, you can always rub my shoulders."

Cor calculates dates in her head. Technically, it hasn’t been quite long enough, but Cam _asked_ , and she knows from experience how stressful hosting a gathering can be. 

She really ought to mention the tall, skinny, angular elephant in the room, but she's scared Cam will take the reassurances away again. She digs her thumbs into Cam’s back and doesn't bring him up.

* * *

When Coronabeth gets home, she updates the rules.

> _squeeze her hand: twice per day._
> 
> _hugs: for greetings and goodbyes only._
> 
> _rub her shoulders: once a fortnight, unless she specifically asks. make it count. ignore the way her chin tips back in pleasure when she relaxes. stop when she starts making The Noises._
> 
> _treasure trail: entirely forbidden. don’t even_ look _at it._

* * *

The next week at work, Gideon packs Cam apology salads-- turkey and greens and cranberry and feta and homemade dressing, with the last of Corona's leftover dinner rolls. Cam unwisely opens her lunchbox in front of the paralegals who tease her about her wife and refuse to listen when Cam protests that she and Gideon aren't married.

Maybe the turkey wasn’t too big, after all.


	9. Hockey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father's Day to Magnus Quinn!
> 
> Love,  
> Disaster Chaos Gremlins

Gideon stands at Palamedes’s barren counter, refilling bowls of tortilla chips. They’ve just finished resolving the week’s combat and they’re taking a break before they handle the fallout.

She is absolutely unprepared for Harrow to trail into the kitchen after her, drawing a chair away from their kitchen table, which is, as usual, coated in books and documents and therefore completely unusable. She ignores this and waits to see if Harrow is going to sit.

Harrow doesn’t. Instead, she says, "Griddle, you know things about people, right?"

"What?" The bag of chips slips out of her hand and tumbles toward the ground. Gideon barely manages to catch it before she spills tortilla crumbs all over Palamedes’s floor. "I do?"

"The thing is--" begins Harrow, and then she thrusts her phone, unlocked, onto the counter in front of Gideon. This is way too much proximity. These days, they make it through three out of four D&D sessions without sniping at each other, but it’s still a tenuous peace.

Gideon eyes the phone. Being in a room alone with Harrowhark Nonagesimus’s unlocked phone is a long-held fantasy of hers, marred only by the actual presence of Harrowhark Nonagesimus peering intently at her.

Slowly, she puts down the chips and picks up the phone. She stares at it for several long moments, and then turns to Harrow. "What the _fuck_ is this?"

Harrowhark has come to lurk behind her shoulder. She points with a single, skinny, knobbly finger. "Coronabeth's tops have been getting lower-cut for weeks."

Gideon squints at the display. That little bit of supremely unhelpful context doesn’t help the jagged lines on Harrow’s display make any more sense. "I repeat myself. What the _fuck_ is this?"

Leaning in closer, Harrow indicates a series of points. "It's a monotonic decrease, week over week. I know the data is inadequate. If we were still having barbecues, I would have added that information in."

Gideon stares some more. Apparently, Harrow has been _graphing_ how deep Corona’s necklines go. She arrives at a conclusion. "Harrow, this is all really creepy."

Apparently satisfied with Gideon’s comprehension of the situation, Harrow begins to pace the tile kitchen floor. "It’s within the second standard deviation of all the necklines she wears, once I remove outliers and outerwear from the model. What I don't understand is-- isn't she cold? It’s November, and we haven’t even turned the heat on yet."

Gideon swivels her head to track Harrow’s fretful movement. "I have no idea, because this is all patently none of my--" she begins.

The door shuts loudly, pointedly announcing an entrance. Cam stands with her hand on the knob, openly staring at the pair of them. "I came to check on the snacks."

Gideon yelps. "Tell her this is creepy, Cam, seriously, I cannot be held responsible--" At a loss for words, she hands Harrow’s phone to Cam, which is a shame, because it means she has to give up her plan to change all of Harrow’s notification tones to women moaning. She has all the files saved on her phone for just this kind of eventuality, and she’s giving it all up to protect Coronabeth’s honour. Worst of all, God willing, Cor will never know.

Cam studies the phone, studies Harrow, studies the phone again. "This is kind of creepy, Harrow," she says, flat. She tosses the phone to Harrow-- Harrow spectacularly botches the catch, and the phone plinks off the lapel of her blazer and gently falls to the kitchen floor-- and then Cam disappears. There’s the telltale creak of stairs as Harrow stoops to retrieve her phone, tucking it away in one of the many pockets of her vest.

Clutching the bowl of tortilla chips, Gideon looks at Harrow for a brief, horrified moment before beating a hasty retreat back to the safety of the D&D table.

* * *

Corona looks at Palamedes as Cam goes to join Gideon and Harrow in the kitchen.

He gives her a helpless shrug.

Gideon returns first, bearing a bowl of chips and a forced smile. "The last of the homemade ones," she says, by way of apology, "and then we have to get into the store-bought. Cam got into the batch when I was making them."

Which is fair. They all love Gideon’s tortilla chips, but Cam’s the one who rhapsodizes about them. "Thank you," says Coronabeth, with all the warmth she can muster, because the atmosphere around the table has gotten weirdly chilly and she doesn't know why or how, but she does know she wants it to _stop_. Harrow and Gideon are even getting along, inasmuch as Harrow and Gideon ever get along.

Instead of replying, Gideon looks somewhere between stricken and guilty. Every time Corona thinks she’s worked out the dynamics among this group, something weird happens.

Coronabeth looks down at: at her outfit, at her character sheet, at the rows of dice laid out in neat rows and patterns around her place. She can’t figure out what she’s doing wrong. This is one of her best shirts-- it’s extremely decorative but firmly on the near side of scandalous, scalloped lace framing her décolletage. It works everywhere _else_.

She still hasn’t worked it out by the time Harrow slides grouchily back into her seat next to Coronabeth and curls over her phone, thumbs tapping furiously on the screen.

They’re waiting on Cam now. Cam, who’s meticulously punctual. Cam, who stormed off to check on the two buffoons currently sulking at opposite corners of the table.

It takes another ten interminable minutes-- table etiquette be damned, Corona gives up and opens a match-three game on her phone-- before Cam returns. She’s carrying an armful of grey fluff that resolves into a blanket when Cam shakes it out over Coronabeth’s shoulders. There's a brief breathless moment when Cor thinks Cam is going to lean down to kiss her-- and she shouldn't want that, Cam is seeing Palamedes, they're friends, they're just friends-- but it ends and Cam steps away again.

"You looked cold," says Cam, which explains exactly nothing.

She breathes in to reply, and then loses her entire train of thought, because the blanket that Cam has obviously retrieved from the upstairs of Palamedes’s house smells like her. It’s got the scent of pine from the detergent she shares with Gideon, the bergamot that’s Cam’s alone. "Thank you," she says again. The pause was too long, and now she’s _definitely_ made things awkward.

The blanket is soft and warm-- she hadn’t realized how cold she’d gotten-- but now that she has it, it feels like she doesn’t deserve it. She’s trying her best, and she can feel herself failing. If Cam wants her to cover up her cleavage, the very “big personality” Cam had said she liked, she doesn’t understand what she’s contributing. She doesn’t know what else to do. 

* * *

It’s late, and Coronabeth still has the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Gideon hopes that this will forestall any further bad graphs on Harrow’s part. At least she’s unlikely to get cornered in the kitchen again; the session is winding down in spite of Harrow’s best efforts to stall them in endless strategy negotiations.

"We are not rushing in to kill an adult blue dragon like knuckleheads, Gork," Harrow says with a very Nonius air of indignation, every syllable annoyingly enunciated.

"Yeah, well, I’m not going to dawdle around waiting for you to make an army of skeletons." Gideon takes a certain amount of unholy glee in the accent she’s chosen for Gork. Based on the way Palamedes rubs the bridge of his nose every time she uses it in a session, it probably inflicts Psychic damage on him. It makes up for the comments about Gork’s name he made during their first session.

Corona presses her chin into her hands, thinking. "Can we send Crux in as a distraction?"

Harrow snorts. "We could have, if _Gork_ hadn’t pulverised him. Anyways, a tiny lizard skeleton isn’t going to distract a dragon."

It hadn’t been Gideon’s _intention_ to crush Crux under the pillar Gork knocked down to seal the passageway between them and a pack of angry kobolds, he was just collateral damage in an effort that saved them all. A brave, if unintentional, sacrifice from the bone lizard. She’s not that bothered.

"And as you are planning," Palamedes interrupts, standing to his feet. "You hear the scratching sound of claws on the ground. A kobold lookout passes by the tunnel you’re all hiding in, sees you, and screams."

Cam waves her hands in the air in panic. "Fuck! Can I--"

Palamedes continues. "The dragon in the center of the cavern opens an eye the size of a wagon wheel, the big orange ball staring straight at you all. And that’s where we’ll pick up next week."

He clears his throat and takes his glasses off, rubbing them on his shirt in the ensuing panicked and despondent shouting, and puts his glasses back on. They barely keep from sliding off when he smiles rather smugly.

When the screams finally die down, thank yous circulate around the table and Gideon helps Palamedes lift up the battle mat to put it away while Coronabeth corrals in her now frankly excessive collection of dice. 

"So... I saw a box in the backyard coming here," Cam says, the group falling into post-game banter. "New addition?"

Harrow looks up, lips pursed as she packs away her notebook. "Composter."

"It looks really good, actually. Where did you get it?" Gideon asks. She hadn’t wanted to bring it up-- noticing anything to do with Harrowhark Nonagesimus is always fraught-- but now that they’re talking about it, she can’t quell her curiosity.

Harrow leans in, as if she’s going to convey a secret. Her eyes glitter like predatory beetles, all caustic secretions and cutting edges. Gideon does not trust her for a second. "That’s classified.”

Gideon rears back. "What the _fuck_ , Harrow, I was trying to compliment you--"

Cam’s hand lands on her shoulder, and Gideon shakes it off. She knows better than to let this escalate into a physical confrontation-- for one thing, she would crush Harrow like a bug, and then they’d be down a spellcaster. Besides, Harrow always manages to get her own back. She subsides into uneasy silence.

Cor sighs audibly, clearly attempting to defuse the situation. "Anybody know any contractors?" 

That gets Gideon’s attention. "What’s up?"

"One of our cabinet hinges is doing something weird."

If it’s a distraction, it’s a good one. Gideon loves fixing things for her friends. "Want me to come over? If it’s just a cabinet, I can probably take care of it for you."

Corona casts her eyes down at the table, then meets Gideon’s grin with a smile of her own. "Monday?" she suggests.

"See you then," says Gideon.

* * *

On Monday, Gideon rings the bell wearing a toolbelt.

"When I said you should ask for contractor recommendations, I did not mean that you should get our neighbor to do contractor cosplay," Ianthe hisses, peering out the bay window.

"She’s really good," protests Corona.

"We do not accept _charity_ ," Ianthe continues, only half-listening.

To forestall further argument, Corona opens the door. "Hello, Gideon," she says in her warmest tones.

"Hey." Gideon glances around Corona’s shoulder to where Ianthe has perched decorously on the antique sofa. Corona can watch Gideon visibly resolve not to ask what’s going on, and she’s grateful for it. Instead, Gideon waves hello to Ianthe. Her arms fill out the sleeves of her shirt fabulously, and then she turns her attention back to Corona. "So what’s up with your cabinet?"

"I’ll show you." Corona leads Gideon into the kitchen and shows her the cabinet door. It’s a little bit lopsided, but it still swings open and shut. For now.

"Glass of water? Wine?" Corona asks.

"Water’s great," says Gideon, entirely preoccupied with the hinge assembly.

Corona opens the fridge and fills the glass with water from the dispenser inside the door. Ianthe appears in the dining room and perches in her spot at the formal table, scowling. By the time she’s passing it over, Gideon’s closed the cabinet. "It’ll take me, like, two seconds to fix this. I just need to get some new screws, because these babies are stripped."

It doesn’t feel like a pass, just friendly innuendo. Obscurely disappointed, Corona reaches out for the wine bottle on her own behalf. It’s after six on a Monday night, she can have this for herself. She thought the repair would be more complicated.

Gideon drains half her glass of water and hitches her hip up against the countertop, like there’s something on her mind.

Corona pours the wine, giving Gideon time to put words together.

"Okay, so I know I was drunk on Friendsgiving," Gideon says. Cor has a distinct feeling that she’s had this exact same conversation not that long ago, except she was on the other side of it.

"We all were."

"Yeah, well, yeah, but I’m serious about the hockey thing," Gideon says. "If you’re interested."

Cor’s interested. Cor is very much interested. She tilts the neck of the bottle towards Gideon with a raised eyebrow, offering again, and Gideon shakes her head. No matter, more wine for her. "Tell me about it?"

Gideon shrugs. "We play Friday nights after 6 and practice is Tuesdays after 6. It’s a lot of fun-- no like, smashing people into boards or anything, or at least that’s what the rules say, and there’s usually beers afterwards if you’re into that sort of thing."

Pensively, Corona puts the rim of her wineglass to her lips, inhales the bouquet, and lowers it again without sipping. "I mean, I don’t know how to play, and I wouldn’t want to intrude."

"We’re recreational. Half of our team look like they’re recreating the _Bambi_ ice scene," Gideon says. "And we’re here to have fun, score a few goals, have a few beers. If you’re into that, you’d be great on the team."

Ianthe clears her throat loudly and storms off upstairs, shooting Coronabeth a stern look Corona elects to ignore. Gideon picks up her glass and downs the rest of her water. It's nervous, because Ianthe is being deliberately rude.

Corona eyes the empty glass. "Can I get you anything else? We do have beer, if that's something you'd like."

"The water was fine."

"It's no trouble," Cor reassures her. She wants Gideon to feel at home. "It's just in the other refrigerator, as we don't drink a great deal of beer ourselves."

"The other refrigerator?" Gideon asks, and Corona smiles brilliantly at her. 

"I'll be right back." She hurries, because Gideon looks skittish, and comes back with a six-pack left over from the last time they hosted.

"Catfish Brewery’s Noodle IPA? I haven't heard of that," says Gideon, perusing the label. "Sure, I'll give it a try."

They have all the things they need to entertain, and it isn't trouble to find a pint glass and pour.

"Thanks." Gideon picks up the glass and takes a sip, and then turns her face and coughs into her shoulder.

Cor winces. "How is it?"

"It's great," says Gideon, too quickly. She sets the pint glass aside.

Leaning in reflexively, Cor gives Gideon a conspiratorial smile. "Oh, don't lie to me, it's gone, hasn't it?"

Instead of answering, Gideon's breath hitches. Corona follows the path of panicked golden eyes, cast slightly down to-- the place where Corona has used her arms, braced on the kitchen counter, to bring her cleavage to inappropriate heights. The little noise Gideon makes is such a rush. Cam never reacts to her this openly, and even when she does it's just the same way she reacts to any of her friends-- Gideon or Harrow or Palamedes. It feels good to know that she hasn't completely lost her touch.

"If you do that around my hockey team," Gideon says, her voice a little bit shaky, "you'll definitely be really popular."

And that's what stops Corona dead, because that's not what she wants at all. She wants friends, not conquests, and Gideon has reminded her. "Thank you," she says, and "I'm sorry." She straightens immediately. It's cruel to toy with someone who's so obviously in love with someone else. She had thought she was doing better about that.

Gideon's smile grows lopsided. "They're great breasts," she offers. "You definitely don't need to apologise for them."

That may be so, but it doesn’t mean that Corona doesn’t know how to delicately change the subject. "So, if I joined your team, what would I play?"

Gideon gives Cor a shameless once-over. "You could probably play anything. If I’m being selfish, we’re kind of hurting for a tendy." Cor raises an eyebrow and Gideon makes an _oh_ face. "Goaltender. Covering the goal, stopping pucks?"

Corona knows what a goaltender is, but she’s mostly a little flattered Gideon thinks she could fill a role as challenging as that looks. "I mean... isn’t that a rather important position?"

"You’d pick it up. We _do_ have a tendy but only one. Kind of sucks to pick straws and make a player get into the goalie gear every game. You could learn for the beginning of the season and then eventually play when you feel confident, or if injuries happen, you know."

Gideon’s so relaxed when she talks about her team. Her golden eyes light up, her shoulders loosen, her hands move gracefully. Cor wants to know what it is about hockey that gets Gideon like this, so excited and also so free.

"Okay," she says, and Gideon’s head cocks with a grin. "Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll need gear though."

Gideon beams. "Are you free tomorrow night?"

Corona’s smile is just as bright. "What about right now?"

"Seriously? But what about your cabinet?" 

"It’ll keep."

"The gear is kind of expensive. I’d understand if you wanted to wait." Gideon’s still hesitating.

Coronabeth has had enough. She’s not going to let anyone else tell her what she wants. She knows she wants stupid things, destructive things, but-- "I am a Tridentarius," she says loftily. "Money is no object."

Gideon unbuckles her toolbelt. "I’m in."

* * *

"Nope, those are going to be too short. Try... these?" Gideon pulls another pair of hockey pants off the rack and swaps it with the pair in Cor’s hands. 

Cor diligently steps into them and pulls them up around her waist, cinching the straps tight and tapping on the padded shell. 

"Okay yeah, that looks better. If they’re comfortable, we can move on."

The pants go in a shopping cart littered with other gear. Goalie pads, a glove and blocker, a helmet, a handful of sticks (or as Gideon likes to call them, twigs), and a whole other assortment of gear they’ve collected through the afternoon at the hockey store. 

Gideon leads them to the wall of skates and Cor follows with the cart. "Do you know how to skate?" She’s bent down in front of a stack of boxed skates and pulls out three, motioning for Cor to sit.

"I figure skated when I was younger," Cor says. Gideon stacks the boxes next to her and they start on unlacing Cor’s boots, Cor taking the left and Gideon taking the right. "Along with tennis and horseback riding. My parents wanted us-- me and Ianthe-- to be in sports."

"Did you like it?"

Corona shrugs, putting her boots to the side. "It was fine. I always wanted to be on the other side of the rink, though. Where the boys learned to play hockey? I was very upset when I learned that you couldn’t do the fancy hockey stop in figure skates."

Gideon opens a box to reveal black skates with gleaming blades. "We’ll get that fixed quickly."

By the time Cor’s gotten the paper balls out of the skates and is halfway done unlacing them, GIdeon’s already unlaced the other one and started to put Corona’s socked foot into it. It looks natural for her to do this, kneeling on the ground, lacing the skate back up with practiced ease.

Cor must have stayed silent for too long, observed for too long, because Gideon looks up at her. "You okay?"

Cor nods and gives her a small smile. "You’re good at this."

Gideon shrugs. Her grin is easy as she returns to her task. "My foster dad used to do this for me all the time. Magnus and Abigail-- they were at the first barbecue-- they gave me the space and money to find what I really wanted to play. Hockey’s expensive, but they bought all the equipment, paid my fees, everything."

Cor gives up on her skate and leans back on her hands to listen to Gideon talk. 

Gideon finishes the one skate and starts on the next one. "Magnus used to lace up my skates before every game too. So embarrassing, I was 18 and my _dad_ was lacing up my skates. He couldn’t be in the locker room so I’d walk out to the hallway with my skates so he could do it. I have so much respect for him." She finishes knotting the laces and pats Cor’s booted foot. "Stand up, how do they feel?"

Cor wobbles a little and puts her hand on Gideon’s head to steady herself. "Snug."

"Good," Gideon says, and runs her through a small battery of tests to make sure they fit. 

Gideon has a certain obvious visual appeal that Corona has appreciated since the day she moved in next door. As she’s gotten to know her neighbors, she’d assumed that Cam had essentially moved in with eye candy with good carpentry skills and a tolerable personality. She’s spent time with Gideon in group settings-- at D&D, mostly, since Gideon spends most of the barbecues grilling-- but she hasn’t, in the whole year they’ve been living next door to one another, taken the time to converse with her one-on-one.

Apparently, that was an enormous mistake, because, absent the presence of Harrowhark, Gideon is delightful-- warm and open and helpful. Cam has talked about the destructive alchemy between Gideon and Harrow before; this is the first time Cor has seen its converse, and it’s compelling. People do uncharacteristic things around people who they love, she supposes. She should know; she does all manner of ridiculous things around Cam.

"Okay," Gideon unlaces the skates, puts them back in the box and gingerly places them into the cart. "Ready?"

They approach the checkout and Gideon turns to her. "Now I know it’s a lot..."

Cor smiles and pulls out a matte black card. She thinks about Ianthe clearing her throat yesterday. She thinks about herself looking at the other end of the rink and wishing she was wearing a different kind of skate. "I said yes, didn't I? About time I do something for myself."

The cashier rings up their purchases and Cor taps her card and watches the purchase go through. Hockey time.

* * *

Gideon comes home late. Cam’s not worried, because Gideon texted. _Heading out, be back later_ , she says. Cam assumes it’s something to do with supplies they need for Corona’s broken cabinet.

So she’s surprised, not worried, when Gideon comes home late, ringing the doorbell on the way in. This week, it’s the Jaws theme. Cam ignores the bell and asks, "Some really good cabinet fixing?" 

"Huh?" Gideon asks, utterly beaming as she lines up her boots at the door. "No, Cor’s joining the hockey team."

The hazy, drunken memory of Friendsgiving conversation stirs in Cam’s mind. She hadn’t realized that Gideon was serious about asking Corona to join the hockey team, and she especially hadn’t realized that Corona was serious about wanting to play. They usually do movie night on Tuesdays, when Gideon has practice, but it’s just an informal friend thing. Cam doesn’t know if she’s allowed to mourn the loss.

"Also, I invited her to work out with us," Gideon adds. "Since she can’t swim when it’s cold out."

Cam blinks. Visions of Corona doing laps in a bikini surface in her brain. That’s safe, because she’s tucked away behind a fence but also clearly visible from Cam’s bathroom or Gideon’s bedroom. Cam doesn’t look, or anyway, she doesn’t look _much_.

"I hope that was okay."

It means she’s going to have to work out next to Cor in workout gear. Knowing Cor, it’s sure to be provocative. She has honed her skill in showcasing her body, in all of its splendor, to the kind of edge that cuts through all of Cam’s noble intentions. Cam can’t blame her, not when she gets to see the results. It’s just distracting, that’s all, and especially when she’s loyal to her boyfriend.

"Cam? Oh shit. I’m sorry."

Gideon’s apology jars Cam back to reality. "No, it’s fine." She hasn’t said anything in a full minute. That definitely isn’t normal. She needs an excuse. "It was just a long day at work. I’m sorry."

Gideon’s face goes from guilty to sympathetic. "Oh man, those are the worst. Want me to rub your shoulders?"

Now Cam feels bad about the deception, but not quite bad enough to turn down a shoulder rub. "I mean, I won’t say no."

* * *

Cam checks her phone before she crawls into bed, her muscles loose and relaxed after Gideon’s massage. There’s a text from Corona. _Gideon asked me to join her hockey team. We practice on Tuesdays-- can we move movie night to Saturday?_

The last bit of tension drains out of Cam’s lower back. _Of course,_ she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A peek into the mind of the authors, only one of whom lives in the country in which this story is set.  
> Alternate title: How Payment Methods Work in Different Countries
> 
> _Ohohoho  
>  1.) This story is set in your CIVILIZED country  
> 2.) But! In this hellscape, you TRY to insert  
> 3.) And then it rejects  
> 4.) And then you apologize to the cashier  
> 5.) And then it rejects again  
> 6.) And then you apologize some more  
> 7.) And then the cashier apologizes BACK  
> 8.) And then it rejects the third time  
> 9.) And then you swipe and USUALLY it works  
> 10.) But SOMETIMES  
> 11.) It says "THIS IS A CHIP CARD, PLEASE INSERT"  
> _


	10. Gork's Close Call

"Jenny would like to take a running start, jump up Clarabelle’s back, and leap towards the dragon with both swords out," Cam says and Gideon whoops.

They’ve been at this battle for the entirety of the session and while combat isn’t normally Harrow’s thing, this has been a fun encounter. The bowl of tortilla chips that Gideon made sits on the sideboard, abandoned half-full. They took the shortest break Harrow can remember, and now she finds herself crunching into carrot sticks to relieve her feelings as the tension mounts. 

Palamedes has really outdone himself this time with environmental hazards and waves of kobolds to distract them while a massive dragon turns the entire cave into a Red Bull Crashed Ice race course. Every hit has been hard earned so far and the dragon is finally starting to show wear.

"23 and 22 both hit, roll damage," Palamedes says, writing something down before flipping through his guidebooks furiously.

"Don’t forget to add Sneak Attack damage!" Gideon and Cor say simultaneously. Cam shakes her head with a laugh. They’re never going to let her live that down.

Cam rolls a handful of dice that clatter loudly on the table. "41 piercing damage."

Gideon whistles loudly in approval.

Palamedes pushes his glasses back up and looks at his papers. "Clarabelle, you’re next."

Corona’s grown into her character well. When they’d started playing, the third session or so after Clarabelle had joined the party, the cleric had advocated _talking_ to the _obviously evil, child-sacrificing_ half-elves. (Nonius is a necromancer, but even _he_ has standards.) To compound the issue, Gideon and Cam had _enabled_ her. (Harrow puts it down to the influence of the breasts. To be fair, the breasts are spectacular; Harrow just doesn’t think that they should impact decisions at the gaming table.) That ill-advised attempt at diplomacy had nearly gotten the entire party killed. It wasn’t until Harrow got through to Cam that Jenny had lost her temper and shouted: "Clarabelle, you’re _strong_ , _hit them with your mace_." Clarabelle had scored her first-ever critical hit, getting them out of the situation long enough for them to heal up and then go back to kill the (evil, child-sacrificing) survivors. 

But that had been months ago. Since then, Clarabelle has come into a spectacular damage-dealing cleric holding the front lines while Gork whales on those who get past Clarabelle, enabling Jenny to flit across the battlefield while Nonius stands in the back and raises armies to aid his friends. 

So when Coronabeth grins down at her spell sheet, Harrow’s gut twists in anticipation.

"I’m going to swing at the dragon," Corona says, excitement creeping up into her voice as she rolls. "19 to hit?"

"Just hits," Palamedes says.

Corona picks up a fistful of dice and rolls. "12 bludgeoning damage, and for my Bonus Action, I’d like to use my 7th level spell slot to cast Divine Word." She squeezes her eyes together tightly like she’s a second grader hoping to be selected as Best Student of the Week.

Palamedes makes a sound of surprise and opens up another rulebook. "Divine Word? Okay..." He rolls into his dice tray and looks across his pages. And then starts to laugh, a dry, breathy chuckle like he can’t believe what’s happening.

"Is everything okay?" Gideon asks. Her fist is tightly clenched and her toe has been tapping this whole time. Nerves.

Palamedes puts up his finger for a moment and then takes a deep breath, composing himself. "Clarabelle. You clutch at your holy symbol and close your eyes. You draw on the fire of the forge and feel your shield heat up in your hand. Everyone else, Clarabelle’s shield glows brilliantly like a lighthouse lamp. It’s intense and all of you turn away, the light searing at your eyes. Clarabelle. You thrust your shield out forward and release the energy and when you open your eyes, the dragon is staring right at you. And then a beam of light bursts out of its shoulder."

Gideon pushes her chair back and turns to stare at Cor, her face one of shocked delight.

"Another beam erupts out of its back, and then another from its eye. You all watch as pillars of fiery radiant energy burst forth from the dragon one by one, illuminating the cave. It rears back, roaring and bellowing in pain." Palamedes is half-off his chair in excitement now, lost in the description. "It opens its mouth as if to say something, but the only thing that comes out is blinding light. Its belly swells with light and you all look away as it expands, expands, and--" Palamedes stands abruptly, knocking into the table. Nobody pays it any mind. "Explodes."

The table is silent. One by one, the pairs of eyes turn to Corona who sits there looking like a child on Christmas Eve. "Did I just--"

Gideon pushes herself up to stand on the chair and whoops loudly. Palamedes sits back down with a face-splitting grin, eyes wide in delight. Cam offers a wildly enthusiastic high five and Harrow reaches over the table as well, offering a much more restrained handshake.

"I just blew up... a motherfucking dragon," Cor says, and then in a very Gideon-esque move, fistpumps enthusiastically.

"19 hit points," Palamedes says as he shakes his head. "19 hit points."

Gideon sits back down, leans over, and tucks Cor under her shoulder in a firm side hug. "That’s our cleric."

Cor’s cheeks flush with the compliment and Harrow settles back into her Nonius voice. "We should get out of here. Who knows if other kobolds are on their way. I’m basically out of spells."

"I think we should take a short rest first. Gork, you look like _shit_ ," says Cam, channeling Jenny’s pragmatism.

Harrow shakes her head. "If we can get back to camp, we can get a full rest. I say go back to camp."

"There were bandits the last time we were there. I have a bad feeling about going back." Cam plays D&D much like she acts in real life: cautiously and terribly practically. It’s an admirable trait to have, if a little boring in a world where you can make dragons explode with light.

"’s fine, we scared ‘em off last time and if they’re still there, Gork and Clarabelle will deal with them." Gideon extends a hand to Coronabeth for a fistbump. "I say home. Closer to beer and boobs."

Harrow rolls her eyes. Gideon is the same whether she’s Gideon or Gork.

"I still have a spell to get us there," Corona offers, flipping through her papers. 

"You’re all _sure_ you want to go back to your encampment?" Palamedes asks, triple checking.

There are nods around the table. 

"Take us home," Harrow says.

* * *

What Harrow expects when Clarabelle casts the spell is for them to arrive back at their forest encampment, to share a few drinks around the fire, and then to retire to their tents and get in a nice full 8 hours of rest.

That’s not what happens. Instead, Palamedes is replacing the map on the table with a new one. 

"You all land in the encampment, the glowing sigils of the spell fading from the ground. But something’s not right. The tents look lived in and the firepit is still smouldering. You look around and there are people here. Bandits. And they’re looking right back at you... I need everyone to roll initiative."

The entire party cries out in dismay and rolls. Palamedes starts placing their figurines on the mat and puts down half a dozen bandits around them.

"How is Nonius looking?" Cor leans over and asks with a whisper, watching the pieces fall into place.

Harrow shakes her head. "Tapped of all my spells."

"Clarabelle’s got your back," she says and sits back up.

It’s a difficult battle when all of them are exhausted and running low on resources. 

"Should have taken a short rest." Cam grimaces, taking another arrow into the arm.

Harrow purses her lips.

"Nonius, the bandits seem very angry after that fireball," says Palamedes. "They--"

"Would they be paying attention to me instead?" interrupts Gideon. She points at the map. "I killed their leader who was attacking Nonius. I think I’d draw their ire." Harrow has been keeping track, and she knows Gork doesn’t have many hit points left, either, but it’s more than Nonius’s two. There’s a chance the bandits will roll low.

"Have it your way," Palamedes says after a moment of thought, rolling. "Do a 19, 22, and 20 hit?"

Gideon nods grimly. "Everything hits."

The dice Palamedes rolls clack noisily in nervous silence. "Eight points of piercing damage--"

"Gork is unconscious," Gideon reports gravely, ashen-faced. 

Cor makes a pained noise when Palamedes knocks Gork’s figurine over. 

"Two bandits follow after the arrow sticks into Gork’s chest through the heart," Palamedes says, "and as Gork falls, they both run him through with their spears. When Gork hits the ground, his eyes are open and empty."

Harrow presses her knuckles to her chin, refusing to look at the expressions of shock and horror around the table. Nonius is out of spell slots. He has to finish this. They have to finish this before someone else goes down.

"Nonius? What would you like to do?"

Two of the bandits are harassing Jenny and another one is in the forest firing at Clarabelle. The smart thing to do is to hang back and lob firebolts until everyone is dead or running. And then again, playing it safe in D&D is boring. 

"Nonius runs towards one of the bandits beside Jenny and punches him. I want him to put his fist through his stupid fucking skull and then rip it in half. I want to crush his nose into his brains. I want to bust out each tooth into his stupid mouth and make him gag on them. I want to mangle him so badly even I can’t raise a functioning skeleton out of his body." It doesn’t matter that Nonius doesn’t have the strength to do something like that. It doesn’t matter. Gork is dead. It also doesn’t matter that Gideon’s looking at _her_ now.

Palamedes’s eyebrows rise above the rim of his glasses. "Okay, roll to hit."

The turns blur into each other. Gideon sits there with her face in her hands, silent, staring at the fallen figurine of Gork. Rounds of combat pass her and she answers mechanically to all of them, beating into the bandit.

"Nonius?"

"I punch him."

"He’s dead. You punched him to death."

Harrow hadn’t realised that the bandit had died sometime between Nonius leaping on him and now. She scowls. "I punch him anyway."

Nonius doesn’t struggle when Clarabelle eventually peels him off the dead bandit and brings him to Gork’s still body. She thinks about the bandit’s blood coating Nonius’s arms and soaking into his robes and she lets him stew in his anger.

"Clarabelle, bring him back," Harrow demands.

Corona shakes her head. "I can’t."

Harrow’s eyebrows pinch together. "What do you mean, you can’t? You’re the cleric, bring him back."

Corona puts her head between her hands. "I don’t have the diamonds. I have one more spell slot for Raise Dead but I don’t have a diamond to do it with."

Harrow rubs at her face. Shit. She looks at her spells list. She knows she has no more spell slots left. They still look woefully inadequate. "Shit. What do we have?"

Gideon helpfully pulls out her inventory list and together they pore over items. They have the coin and they have nearly twice the number of emeralds they would need to complete the spell. But emeralds are not diamonds.

Harrow turns to Palamedes. "Can we try the resurrection with emeralds? It’s just a materials cost, right?" She doesn’t like that her voice has taken on a slight pleading tone, but Gork is dead and Gork is useful and nice and fun, damn it, she wants Gork back.

Palamedes pushes his glasses up and considers the request. "Okay," he says, "but with a stipulation. It’s not the right component, so there’s a chance of failure. After the spell is cast, I will roll a die. On a 1-10, the spell fails. On a 11-20, the spell succeeds."

"Can we do anything to make the odds better?" Cam asks, looking up from the list of items.

Palamedes tilts his head to the side, considering. "I’ll allow you each to try and convince Gork’s soul to come back. If I feel that your character has made a genuine and personalized attempt, I’ll move the odds of succeeding by one per attempt."

Harrow nods and breathes out hard. Clarabelle takes the emeralds and lays them across Gork’s still chest and begins to cast the spell. The sigils around Gork’s body light up one by one like a brazier set alight. Clarabelle pulls out her flask, beginning to regale him with her memories of their bar antics in an effort to draw Gork’s soul back.

Harrow looks to Gideon, Corona’s voice fading into the background. She’s leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, looking at the battle mat anxiously. There’s something terribly handsome about the way she does it, half her face hidden behind the hands covering her mouth in nervous anticipation. Her flame red hair is a little out of place from the way she’s been tunneling her hands through it all throughout the night. Despite it, her hair comes in close second place around the table for volume. It’s all so familiar: her bright golden eyes, the steady angle of her nose, her strong jaw, broad shoulders, her arms that fill out the sleeves-- when did Gideon stop looking like a gawky teenager? The last Harrow remembered, Gideon was annoyingly tall and lanky and gangly. Which is not to say, of course, that Gideon is particularly attractive. Perhaps generally pleasing to look at, but not in any way, shape, or form specifically to Harrow. Still, Harrow can appreciate the slope of her neck and the few pale scars that mark the backs of her hands from woodworking.

"Nonius?"

Harrow turns as if she had been paying attention all along. "Yes?"

"Your turn," Jenny says, and waves over Gork’s body. Harrow hadn’t even realized Jenny had taken her turn.

"Nonius will clear his throat and sit beside Gork’s head, putting a hand over Gork’s forehead." It had been Harrow’s intention to plan something to say when the others were taking their turn, but she had been distracted. She refuses to be caught off guard like this again.

"Gork, I don’t know if you can hear me." Harrow feels four pairs of eyes on her and she closes her own, willing words into her mouth. "Perhaps you’ve already reached Valhalla. Perhaps you are being rewarded for your bravery as we speak, bathing in beer and surrounded by women. We all knew you were your god’s favourite, and you deserve it all. But I’m calling you back, Gork. I’m calling you back to this realm and back into your body because your work is not done. You still have years of adventuring before you and years to reminisce after that. There are still forces of evil to defeat, people to convince that Necromancy isn’t inherently evil even when I tell you it’s pointless-- you have such a big heart--, and we still haven’t finished trying every mead this world has to offer." The words flow freely from Harrow’s mouth now, a steady stream barely crossing her mind before they’re spilling forth. "This was not the glorious death you deserved. Come back to us, Gork. I cannot do this. I cannot conceive of a universe without you in it. Don’t leave us. Don’t leave me."

Harrow’s eyes open and she finds four pairs of eyes looking back. They look at her like she’s given the speech of a lifetime and Harrow leans back into the chair, curling in on herself and crossing her arms. "What?"

Clarabelle looks away and nods. "Gork, it’s time to come back."

Palamedes takes his glasses off and cleans them on his shirt. "With that, Gork’s body lifts up off the ground a few inches, magic surrounding him. Light glows in his chest, the same brightness that you all saw earlier in the cave emerging from the dragon, but this light is warm, this is a beacon coaxing life back into this mortal shell. Eventually the lights die down and Gork’s body floats back to the ground, the sigils around him fading out. You wait. One moment. Two. Three... and we’ll pick up from there next week."

They all protest gently at the cliffhanger but with a nod of assent, the table starts packing up. Gideon’s back on her feet almost instantly, giving Cor a hug and a hefty thump on the back in congratulations for slaying a dragon. The mood lightens significantly after that and Harrow helps carry the remaining chips into the kitchen.

* * *

"Hey." Harrow turns to see Gideon has extricated herself out of Cor’s arms to take up space at the kitchen door frame. "Harrow, are you okay? Wanted to check in."

Harrow’s lips press into a thin line. "God, Griddle, don’t read into it. It’s just role-play." She sets the bowl down and tries to push past Gideon back into the dining room. Gideon doesn’t move.

"You got pretty intense back there for a moment." It’s a statement, not a question.

"You died," Harrow responds tersely.

Gideon shrugs. "It’s a game."

"It is so much more than a game!" The words come out of her mouth before she can think about them, and she’s astonished to realize that they’re true: that D&D nights mean she’s socialized more with people who aren’t Palamedes than she has in all the years since undergrad combined.

Gideon holds her gaze for an uncomfortably long time, and then she finally steps aside. Harrow disappears upstairs. 

It’s nice that Gideon thinks she cares. She doesn’t. Gideon can’t ever think that again.

* * *

Gideon is quiet when they walk home. This is unusual for her. She normally gives Cam a play-by-play of the most exciting parts of the night even though Cam was there for all of it. 

But tonight, Gideon is quiet and contemplative as they head back to the house, their shoulders bumping fondly in a silent check-in. Gideon disappears upstairs and Cam puts the snack containers back in their place in the kitchen.

When she walks back out to the living room, Gideon is sitting on a couch with her laptop out on her lap, tongue poking out from between her lips in concentration.

"Pavilion again?" Cam asks. "Or the table?" The holidays are coming up fast, and Cam knows Gideon still has a couple of things to work out before she presents Palamedes with his gift.

Gideon shakes her head. "Letters."

Cam raises an eyebrow and sits on the other end of the couch, feet tucked to the side. "Letters."

"For whatever happens next in the campaign," Gideon explains. She resumes tapping away.

Cam sits there with her and watches Gideon work through words, write, delete, and write again, the quiet clack of keys filling the comfortable silence between them. 

* * *

Come Saturday evening, Gideon’s tucked away in her shed. With Gideon gone, it’s strangely just Cam and Corona in Cam’s kitchen. Strange, but hardly unwelcome.

“That was a hell of a speech Harrow made at D&D,” Cam says. It’s been two days and she’s still thinking about it.

Cor is staring out the kitchen window, where glimpses of red hair signal like a beacon against the grey trunks of trees. "Do you think either of them realize?" she asks pensively.

"Gideon and Harrow?"

"They're absolutely awful to each other," Cor says, in what is possibly the understatement of the century. "And they're in love."

"You're not going to say anything to them, are you?" Cam knows the panic is irrational. Cor is too smart to interfere in whatever toxic storm is brewing between Harrow and Gideon.

"They wouldn't listen to me if I did." Her voice is warmth itself, better than the 1600-lumen LED bulbs Gideon installed when she updated the old kitchen lighting fixtures. She reaches out, catches Cam's hand in hers, squeezes for one long beat, and then lets go. "They'll figure it out eventually."

Partially comforted, Cam unwraps the bag of popcorn, double-checks which way goes up, and puts it in the microwave on the popcorn setting. Corona stands by her in companionable silence as the bag spins on the turntable. While they wait together, they watch Gideon out the window. They’re not close enough to hear her, thank goodness. She appears to be swearing.

Cam rescues the popcorn from the microwave when she smells smoke. She shakes the bag out to distribute the butter. It’s a little bit burnt. She likes it better that way anyway, and there’s Cor at her elbow, laughing at her in a way that makes something in her rib cage flutter.

Outside, Gideon storms around the house to retrieve another board from the garage. They watch, shoulder-to-shoulder, as a short figure cloaked in black stalks through the twilight, taking advantage of Gideon’s absence. It would be a lot more subtle if Cam hadn’t been learning what to look for. The figure leaves again, holding a large shadowy object. The circular saw again, if Cam’s any judge. Gideon is not going to be happy. If they want any hope of watching this movie, they’d better get settled in before Gideon joins them, incandescent with rage.

She tips the popcorn into a bowl and starts to make her way into the living room. 

For once, Corona isn’t following her. She tips her head. "What’s wrong?"

Cam’s eyes narrow into black-lined slits. "How did I mess up?"

"You usually leave Gideon to make her own messes."

Cam can’t help laughing, a little bit ruefully. "She’s pretty good at handling herself. I don’t know what she sees in Harrow."

"Don’t you?" asks Corona. 

Ouch. Harrow doesn’t have Cor’s magnetic allure, but Cam supposes she can see how Harrow’s spikes lock into all of Gideon’s softest places. It’s the loyalty, bone-deep and currently directed into antagonism. So-- maybe.

Even thinking of loyalty makes her feel morose.

Cor takes the popcorn out of Cam’s hands and sprawls out on the couch with it. Cam follows her miserably, and even taking her usual spot under Cor’s calves can’t cheer her up. "You never told me what’s bothering you,” Corona prompts gently.

There’s no more getting away from her. Corona doesn’t get aggressive, but she persists in a way that breaks down every barrier Cam has, waves breaking gently on a sandbar, until everything Cam’s tried to hide spills forth. "It’s Palamedes," she says, and her voice breaks on the third syllable of his name. Her eyes get hot and itchy.

"The bandits were kind of a dick move--" begins Corona.

Cam shakes her head hard. "It’s not D&D. It’s-- he’s always busy." She breathes in, trying to control herself. Her breath hitches. "Isn't this what the dream is supposed to be? I have a house, I’m living with my best friend, and I have the most considerate boyfriend in the world. When I can get him to spend thirty joined-up minutes with me."

Corona has straightened up on the sofa. "Come here," she orders, and Cam goes, because Cor has her arms open, and Cam is weak after all, in the face of so much welcoming warmth.

She presses her cheeks against Cor’s collarbones, and Cor’s arms come around her, folding her up in the softest hug she’s had in months. There’s no way to withstand it anymore. She’s sure she’s getting salt water on Cor’s beautiful skin, but Cor doesn’t complain. They just hold onto each other, and Cam lets herself relax into safety. Corona is murmuring things into her hair, her mouth pressed hard against the crown of Cam’s head. It’s all platitudes, "it’s okay to want things" and "you deserve a partner who wants to spend time with you", but it resolves into a low murmur of _comfort_ and that means more than any words. 

Faintly, from very far away, the back door bangs open and then shut again. There’s the thud of boots being tossed onto the floor, faint footsteps, but no one materializes. After a while, the back door bangs again.

Cam doesn’t know how long she cries, but by the time she manages to let Cor go the popcorn is cold and the television screen has fallen asleep.

"Any better?" asks Corona.

"Not really," says Cam, because crying never fixes anything.

Corona doesn’t press. She just wakes the television back up and cues up the film. "Still want to watch?"

"Yes," says Cam, and then, because she really does feel better-- "Thank you."

"Any time," says Corona.

It feels terrible and disloyal, but as the opening credits start to roll, Cam lets herself lean into Corona’s warmth, just a little bit.

* * *

On the way home, Corona congratulates herself for managing to touch Cam without her mind wandering into the gutter. Apparently, it only takes Cam’s obvious pain to keep her terrible crush appropriately constrained. But she’s pretty sure Cam appreciated the comfort, and that makes it worth it.

For once, Corona feels confident enough to amend the rules so they are _less_ strict.

> _squeeze her hand: twice per day._
> 
> _hugs: for greetings and goodbyes only. Exception: when she cries, you can hold her until she stops_
> 
> _rub her shoulders: once a fortnight, unless she specifically asks. make it count. ignore the way her chin tips back in pleasure when she relaxes. stop when she starts making The Noises._
> 
> _treasure trail: entirely forbidden. don’t even_ look _at it._


	11. The Snack Dragon

“Where we left off,” says Palamedes, after they’ve all gathered around the table, “Clarabelle had just attempted to resurrect Gork, who died in an attempt to protect the party from bandits. The light around Gork’s body had just faded, and you were waiting to see if the spell had worked in time to keep Gork’s soul from going past the Great Gates into Valhalla, beyond which he would no longer wish to return to the material plane.”

Dice clatter behind his screen. Gideon hasn’t even unpacked any of her things, determined not to jinx anything. (Harrow knows that, among things, Gideon has rolled a new character, because Cam mentioned it to Palamedes, and Harrow, sensing gossip, contrived to overhear.)

Palamedes pauses dramatically, letting the tension mount.

The one thing Harrow has learned from watching Cam manage Palamedes is that anyone who wants their interactions with him to resemble normalcy, they can’t let him get away with this kind of thing. She mutters under her breath: “Drodinor, if you allow Gork to return to us, I will be faithful to you forever.”

Palamedes, the ass, takes another two beats before continuing. “You all cluster around Gork’s unconscious form, peering nervously at his bearded face. For a long moment, there’s no movement.”

“I slap his face,” says Corona. “Come on, Gork.”

“Jenny is also praying,” says Cam. She reaches out across the table for Cor’s hand, and Cor takes it without looking.

“And then, slowly, his eyelids flutter open,” Palamedes goes on. Great sighs of relief echo around the table. “Gork, you have a tremendous headache, but you’re alive.”

Harrow goes still and silent as Cam whoops and Corona squeals in joy. Gideon laughs wildly, leaping out of her chair and propping one foot on the seat. She rummages in her binder and brings out her dice, her character sheet, and one more sheet of paper. “Yeah, baby,” she crows. “Gork isn’t done yet!”

And then she picks up the piece of paper and clears her throat. Icy dread trickles down Harrow’s spine. “Clarabelle,” begins Gideon. “My steadfast companion. I cannot wait to lift a tankard with you again. Thank you for bringing me back. Jenny, you said that if I survived-- that if this worked-- you would come carousing with us for once. I’m going to hold you to that.”

Cam buries her face in her hands. “You could _hear_ all that?”

Gideon grins at her, and her face is like the sun. “It wouldn’t have helped me find my way home to you if I couldn’t. And Nonius--” Gideon clears her throat. “You skinny elf motherfucker. We’re going to storm the world and do so many great deeds the world will speak your name with reverence, necromancy be damned, and Drodinor will revel in our glory. I won’t leave you. Where you die I will die, and there we will be buried together. May Drodinor deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.”

“I’m converting,” says Harrow. Her voice is strangely thick, and she can’t figure out how to make it sound normal again. “We’ll follow Drodinor together.”

Gideon holds up a finger, and everyone gives her the moment as she dashes around the table and goes to her knees by Harrow’s side, scooting Corona over to make room.

Looking down at Gideon’s upturned face, Harrow can’t _breathe_. “Griddle--” she begins, hopelessly out of character.

“For the height difference!” Gideon explains hastily. “Because Gork is a dwarf!”

Palamedes takes off his glasses and cups his forehead in his palm. “I did this to myself,” he mutters, as Harrow sucks in air desperately through her nose.

“We should go to the nearest town,” proclaims Gideon, back to her Gork voice. “Where we will celebrate Nonius’s conversion by bringing him to a brothel!”

“We need to _rest_ ,” says Cam. “Clarabelle’s still tapped.”

“On the morrow, then! I’ll take the middle watch,” adds Gideon.

“I’ll take the first watch,” says Harrow. “Nonius isn’t entirely sure about this strange resurrection. He wants to make sure Gork keeps breathing.”

Cam chimes in. “And I’ll take the last watch. Clarabelle, get some rest. You’ve done good work this day, and I can’t thank you enough.”

Behind the screen, Palamedes rolls some dice. “The night passes uneventfully,” he says, sounding greatly aggrieved, “and you wake up feeling refreshed.”

Gideon whoops. “Clarabelle, hook us up!”

“After we pack up the camp, I teleport us to the nearest town,” says Corona. 

“All right,” says Palamedes. “You arrive just outside the town gates. It’s not very large, but as you walk in, there are stalls selling fruit and kabobs, and merchants are doing brisk business in the streets. There are even a few storefronts.”

“Is there a brothel?” asks Gideon, not to be deterred.

Palamedes takes off his glasses and passes them from hand to hand. “Make an investigation check.”

Gideon rolls and claps her hands together excitedly. “Natural 20!”

He sighs and puts his glasses back on. “You wouldn’t think a town this small would have a brothel, but through persistence and a few extremely lucky questions, you find a tiny cottage that appears to be the kind of establishment you seek.” He turns to Harrow. “Nonius, are you going along with this?”

Harrow can’t stand it when Palamedes attempts to condescend to her. “Yes,” she says simply. “I have sworn to Drodinor, in whose eyes the pleasures of the flesh are sacred. I accompany Gork.”

“There appears to be only one professional available at this hour, which is around 9:00 in the morning. Which of you wants to go in?”

“We go together, of course!” Gideon is still on the floor, and at this, she very gently claps a hand on Harrow’s back.

“That is an additional fee.”

“I pay it!”

“We are _not_ roleplaying this,” says Palamedes.

Ignoring him, Gideon turns her face up to Harrow and says, confidentially, “My friend, you should know that there are many women who fantasize about--” She’s gesturing wildly, and Corona delicately scoots her chair out of range before she takes an accidental elbow to the side.

Palamedes cuts Gideon off before she can explain exactly what many women fantasize about. “GIDEON. Gork and Nonius pay the fee and disappear into the cottage. You emerge an hour later. What do you _all_ want to do?”

Gideon takes her hand off Harrow’s back and, grinning, goes back to her usual seat, and the game resumes.

Cam catches Corona’s eye, and Cor inclines her head in a tiny nod. Yes, she saw it, too-- Harrow always flinches when anyone comes too close, but she didn’t react at all when Gideon touched her back. 

* * *

Gideon has to give her credit. Corona holds it together until they pull into the driveway before the frustration spills out. The odor of used hockey pads mingles with the fresh leather of the Range Rover’s interior; Gideon understands why Corona is so adamant about getting her car detailed regularly. They’re nice leather seats, even if they’re currently stuck to the sweaty skin at the back of her neck. A cold snap rolled in a few days ago, and it’s chilly, even for mid-December, so scrolling down the windows for fresh air isn’t an option either. Altogether, she’s glad when the automatic door locks release and they can tumble out of the car to retrieve their bags from the trunk. 

“It’s not your fault we lost,” she says, hauling their bags out. It really wasn’t. Nothing that happened after they put Corona in net changed the outcome of the game. 

“I didn’t _help_.” Corona jabs her finger into the lock button of her car keys, and the Range Rover gives an indignant honk, because it’s the third time she’s locked the doors. “I let in _two_ and I only played one period.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gideon insists, walking around the car to lean on the hood of the SUV. She can’t pretend that the 5-1 loss doesn’t sting, but the whole game was a shitshow, not just the last period. “Judith and Marta are at that wedding with Beth and Marie, and we still would have lost if you’d saved those two.”

“I want to _win_.” Today was the last game before the holidays, and it’s a bummer of a note to leave off on before practice and games resume in January.

“It comes with practice.” Not the most comforting thing to hear, Gideon knows, but at least it’s true. “You just started playing this season and you've already gotten better. I can tell.”

“It’s so frustrating. I used to be so much better at skating, but it’s been so long, and we only practice once a week.” Even Corona’s scowl in the yellow porch light manages to be lovely, which is pretty unfair.

“Hockey skates are different from figure skates.” Gideon runs her schedule through her head. The holidays are always busy, but none of the rec leagues are practicing and there’s plenty of open skate time. “If you’re free next week, we could go. Get your legs under you a little more.”

The scowl drops away, which is an improvement. “I’ll text you and we can figure out a time?”

“Sounds good.” Gideon hooks her bag over her shoulder and turns toward her own house. It looks like the Tridentarius fence isn’t in much better shape than the Sextus-Nonagesimus one was, she notes idly.

There’s some weird rustling from the lilacs in front of the house. Gideon squints in the darkness, but she can’t see anything. It’s probably just a squirrel.

* * *

On the Tuesday between Christmas and the New Year, Harrow's sitting on her back porch. No snow, which is just typical, only mud and dead leaves. She can hear Corona's eyesore of a vehicle from the moment it turns into their cul-de-sac, and she slips around to the front under the cover of both darkness and conveniently-placed plants.

Their bags look lighter than they usually do, and they're wearing matching sweaters, glaringly obvious because the sweaters _light up_ in red and green.

Gideon says something and Coronabeth laughs with her, limned in the light coming from the Tridentarius garage, all bright hair and obnoxious smiles. 

Harrow watches as Gideon waves, gestures always too broad, and peels off to her own house. Once both doors close behind her neighbors, Harrow returns to the safety of her own bedroom and gets back to her book.

* * *

“Hey.” A foot pushes against Cam’s calf and Cam grunts. “Hey. Hey, Cam.”

Cam looks up, pushing her glasses back. It’s late and her eyes are dry from her contacts, but she still has paperwork to finish. “You’re a monster,” she says and shoves Gideon’s foot away.

Gideon grins, having caught her attention. “Corona wants to come lift with us tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

Cam’s brain entirely fizzles out. “Yeah, sure,” she hears herself saying.

Gideon returns to her phone. “She’s been working on getting from one side of the crease to the other faster but wants to put in some extra work to get better.”

Cam nods, looking back at her screen. The words that stare back mean nothing.

“Cool, I’m going to tell her to meet us here in the afternoon.”

Which is how Cam finds herself racking weights for a deadlift while Gideon corrects Corona’s form on lateral lunges the next day. Or, attempting to rack weights. It’s only the starting of dull soreness in her arms that reminds her she’s been holding this plate for who knows how long now, just watching. 

It’s not her fault, not really. She could stop staring like a pervert, but Corona had walked in with a fantastic pair of booty shorts. The straps of a tank top criss-cross over her shoulders, revealing tantalizing glimpses of creamy skin. It doesn’t help that Gideon’s wearing another one of her cutoff tanks today and Cor is rather unashamedly getting an eyeful of arm.

Cam can’t blame her. Cam is many things, but she’s not a hypocrite.

She bends down to load her weights and stands at the middle of the bar, adjusting her grip. She assumes her form, breathes in, and lifts up, holds, then lowers the bar down again. 

She starts another rep, eyes tracing the line of Cor’s thigh. Rationally, she knows that Coronabeth Tridentarius is wildly attractive and she’s simply reacting. Really, if she could find someone who _didn’t_ react to Coronabeth Tridentarius, she’d be bewildered. (She’s not sure that recalling the photos Cor showed her all those months ago around the fire pit counts as ‘reacting’ anymore, but Cam has needs.)

“Cam, you’re rounding. Neutral back,” Gideon calls, making her way towards Cam. 

Cam blinks. She’s halfway through another rep, having forgotten how many she’s done already. And at Gideon’s prompt, realises that she is, in fact, rounding her back. She straightens it back out, finishing the rep and setting the weights down. “Where would I be without you?”

“Still walking around with a busted ankle,” Gideon teases.

Cam rolls her eyes. “Are you deadlifting as well or should I put these back?”

“Hang on.” Gideon goes to grab another plate. They load up the bar and Gideon chalks up her hands. She looks absolutely ridiculous with her cap on backwards and in her basketball shorts. 

Cam steps to the side, crossing her arms, and watches Gideon start her deadlift reps.

“Cam? Do you mind lending me a hand?” Cam looks over her shoulder to see Cor there, a rosy pink on her cheeks.

“Yeah, what’s up?” She leans her weight on a foot, attempting to maintain her casual demeanour and not swallow her own tongue. By god, not a single hair is out of place even though there’s a faint sheen of sweat across Cor’s forehead.

Cor points to the mat on the ground behind her. “Gideon said I should do core work, can you anchor my feet for crunches?”

“Oh-- oh yeah, hold on, I’m just going to... water.” Cam finds her bottle and uncaps it, pouring into her mouth greedily. It’s hot enough that they’ve opened up the garage doors for some much needed fresh air and she’s so thankful for the anaemic breeze that finds its way inside occasionally. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she looks around for the towel she usually brings in with her. It’s nowhere to be found. No matter, she lifts up the bottom of her tank top and wipes her brow dry, licking her lips. She can taste the salt of sweat at the corners of her mouth. “Right. Crunches?”

Cor has gone very still and very quiet looking at her and Cam’s brow furrows in concern.

“Cor, everything alright?”

Cor blinks, startling out of whatever thought she was having. She smiles. “Yeah, everything’s good. Crunches.”

Good to know someone else is having a weird and distractible day, too.

* * *

Cam is in Palamedes’s kitchen, readying the snack dragon for its inaugural flight. It was a Christmas gift from Gideon, beautifully carved in exquisite detail. She places the last container of dip into the divot on the dragon’s wing and turns to find Coronabeth blocking the door to the kitchen with an enormous tray of elaborately decorated sugar cookies. She’s wearing a light-up Christmas sweater, the twin to the one Gideon’s presumably still wearing out in the game room. Gideon, however, is wearing jeans like a normal person, while Corona is wearing an extremely short red velvet circle skirt with fluffy white trim over sheer gold stockings shot through with tinsel. Cam prays fervently that she never changes; the outfits are over-the-top and entirely delightful.

“Can I talk to you?” Corona asks.

“Always,” says Cam immediately, and winces internally. 

Corona puts the massive tray down on the counter, steps in close, and lowers her voice. This makes the fine hair on the back of Cam’s neck stand up. “Do you know what to do about chub rub?”

Cam’s eyes shoot unwillingly to Corona’s thighs. The stockings leave very little to the imagination, and there’s quite a lot of shapely flesh to barely cover. She can see why Corona’s having problems there. “Prevention or cure?” she asks, making eye contact to remind herself that she owes her friend decency.

“Both?”

“Gold Bond lotion for where you’re already chafed, and compression shorts to prevent it from getting worse.” There. She can still behave like a human, even when provoked.

“Thank you,” says Corona, sincerity radiating from every line of her body and wrapping Cam up like a hug. She transfers a selection of cookies onto a smaller plate and turns back to the game room. The circle skirt swirls up, and with Cor looking away, Cam can’t stop herself from watching. Corona always puts together the best outfits. She knows it’s rationalization. Still, she can’t quite stop herself from following Cor out of the kitchen to enjoy a few extra moments of swaying hips.

In deference to the season, Harrow has put a Santa hat on the skeletal T-rex in the corner, left over from Halloween. (It is twin to the T-rex that had mysteriously appeared on their previously-undecorated lawn on 20 October, along with a bone triceratops and a skeletal brachiosaur. Apparently, Harrow is aggressive enough about Halloween decorations to foist them upon her neighbors.)

Palamedes looks around the D&D table-- the new one Gideon made him, with trays that slide out for their snacks and a leaf that comes out to reveal a recessed compartment where the battle mat will be safe from stray gestures. He groans. “Is this entirely necessary?”

“Yes,” says Gideon, a sugar cookie in each hand.

“I will remind you that I am Jewish,” Palamedes says, but he takes a bite of a cookie in the shape of a reindeer anyway.

“And that’s why I made you latkes last month when you asked,” says Gideon. “Tell your mother her recipe is great, by the way.”

Palamedes tries again to get everyone’s attention, but the room’s too giddy. It’s their first time around the new table. Corona can’t stop playing with the compartment for her extensive dice collection. Gideon appears to be trying to set a new record for sugar cookies eaten in one sitting. Even Harrow is humming ‘We Three Kings’ under her breath. For her own part, Cam can’t stop stroking the wing of her new dragon. The wood on the snack holder matches the wood on the table, because they were meant to go together.

“Christmas is over,” he says plaintively.

“Technically the Christmas season extends through Epiphany,” Harrow points out.

“Which was last week, Harrow.” Palamedes breaks sugar cookie Santa’s head in half and bites off his nose.

“I finally got my new composter set up,” Gideon puts in. “I can’t believe the quality. I really wish I knew who’d gotten it for me, because I’d love to buy myself another one.”

Corona finally stops fiddling with the table and pays attention. “Do you have any idea who it was?”

“My guess is Judith and Marta,” says Gideon. “But I texted them, and they won’t admit to it.”

Harrow snorts. “Would Judith and Marta really get their hands dirty like that?”

“I mean, they do like the tomatoes. The whole hockey team does.”

“Magnus and Abigail?” suggests Corona. They’re a fixture at the barbecues, attending often enough that even Palamedes and Harrow have grown fond of them. 

Gideon shakes her head. “Definitely not.”

“Is anyone going to focus on D&D?” asks Palamedes.

“Probably not,” says Gideon, at the same time that Harrow says “Unlikely.”

“We could watch a movie,” suggests Corona, conciliatory. “And you could save your session prep for next week.”

Palamedes concedes with ill grace, and they all end up on the slightly-dusty sofa with plates of snacks nestled amongst the stacks of books on the end tables watching Die Hard With A Vengeance at Gideon’s insistence.

The movie is, as usual, utterly implausible, but Cam finds herself wedged between Corona and Gideon, enjoying herself immensely.

* * *

Gideon makes an enormous lasagna and divides the leftovers into many containers. They’ve decided that it’s easier to take Palamedes leftovers than to extract him from his projects long enough to feed him and send him home with food. Besides, they now have a means to cope with the outtakes when Gideon does kitchen experiments, because Palamedes and Harrow don’t actually care how the food _tastes_. 

So it’s the Monday after the D&D session that wasn’t, and Cam has the usual package. She lets herself in Palamedes’s back door and finds him sitting in the kitchen, eating naked spaghetti, plain noodles on a plate bereft of sauce.

Cam raises an eyebrow. “Palamedes?” He’s feeding himself, which is strange but not a bad thing. This could be growth-- unprecedented. She doesn’t know why all her organs seem to have compressed themselves into one another.

He sighs, pushing his plate away and finishing his mouthful. “This isn’t working.” 

Cam frowns. “What do you mean?” The pasta looks like it’s cooked correctly, and then again, it’s hard to tell from a distance. 

“You’re not happy with me.”

“Of course I’m happy with you!” Cam says automatically. There’s a gnawing sensation around the edges of her smushed insides, something hollow and heavy. This is everything she’s wanted for so long. Isn’t it?

He shakes his head and puts his fork down. “No, you’re not. How many times have you asked to spend time with me over the past two months? And how many times have you pretended you’re not disappointed when I told you no? I’m not an idiot, Cam.”

And no, he isn’t. But it stings so much. She’s tried so hard. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?” It’s a question she already knows the answer to. It’s not her fault, it’s not his fault. It’s just that she wants something that Palamedes can’t give her. Not with his dedication to his work, not when their ways of showing love simply don’t match up.

“You’re not the problem.” He’s making his voice flat. “I don’t want... I want to see you _happy_ , Cam, and you’re not. I’ve known you for too long. So. I can take care of myself.” He gestures at his plate of depressing noodles. “And you can-- seek happiness elsewhere.”

Cam clutches at her bag of lasagna. “But I love you.”

“I love you, too. But...” 

Cam breathes in hard. “We can still play D&D?”

“God, Cam, of course,” Palamedes says. “If you still want to play.”

“You’ve always been my friend.” She swallows hard. “I hope that this won’t change that.”

They stand there in suspended tension, slate-gray eyes locked with deep brown ones. “I think you should go,” he says finally. He stabs at his food again. “You don’t have to take care of me, Cam.”

As if. “Stop it, Warden,” she says, and it’s the first time she’s felt normal. “Naked pasta is not a meal, and you need to eat a vegetable.” She thrusts the bag at him. “Besides, you’re still my friend, and I’ve been feeding you for far longer than we’ve been fucking. Need I remind you I once had to drag you out of the library to the dining hall in school?”

It startles a laugh out of him. “I was so close to making a breakthrough.”

“And you made it after you ate some green beans,” Cam points out.

“Yes, but what if Julia had gotten to it before I did? I would have never lived that down.”

Cam laughs, too, in spite of herself. “Goodnight, Palamedes. Make sure that Harrow gets some of that lasagna, too.”

She steps back out into the cold. She didn’t even take her coat off.

* * *

Five numb minutes later, she finds herself outside another door that isn’t hers, ringing a doorbell that doesn’t play any silly song at all.

She stays clear of mind up until halfway across the cul-de-sac, and then the knot at the back of her throat makes itself known and her vision blurs at the corners. In the process of swallowing her emotions back until she gets somewhere safe, somewhere she can fall apart and grieve, her feet do not take her home, but rather to the Tridentarius porch where she now stands.

Coronabeth answers the door just a moment later. “Cam!” And then, after a moment that’s far too short-- “Are you okay?”

Is it so clear on her face that she’s stricken with grief? It shouldn’t be so visible. Cam draws back. “I’m sorry, it’s Monday,” she says, realizing. Cor has dinner with Ianthe on Mondays. It’s only 7:00 PM. She’s interrupting. It’s shocking that Corona answered the door at all. “I’ll go.”

Cor shakes her head and extends a hand. “We were just finishing up.”

Cam reaches out, their fingers twine, and then Corona’s leading her up the stairs, past Ianthe sitting up ramrod straight at a table set with actual candlesticks. There's a catering container of cheesecake sitting untouched on the table. Ianthe spares her a pitying glance and then returns to whatever it is she’s doing. Cam turns her head away and follows.

She’s never been in Cor’s bedroom before, Cam realises. 

It’s the master bedroom, an echo of the one she sleeps in herself. Or at least, it has the same bones. Everything else is different. The bed is bigger than hers, plush and covered with a golden spread. She tries to count the throw pillows, loses track at 15 when Corona’s hands rest on her shoulders. “Cam, what’s wrong?”

Cam freezes. “Nothing.” It’s automatic. Her brain is on autopilot today. Thinking too much makes her heart lurch.

“You’re a better liar than that.” Corona wipes the pad of her thumb across Cam’s cheek. “It’s Palamedes, isn’t it?”

Cam falls, and Corona catches her. It’s not graceful, because Cam’s not small, and for all that they’ve begun working out together, Cor still doesn’t know how to manage that kind of weight. They end up tumbling backward onto that golden bedspread, and for once Cam presses her face into Corona’s chest and doesn’t even think about the breasts, just inhales orange and lemongrass and vanilla-- Cor’s scent, perfect and familiar-- until it feels a little bit less like the world is about to shatter apart.

She’s crying, she realizes dimly when she remembers herself enough to move her face to a more appropriate location. Corona is stroking her back with those lovely long fingers, the ones that know all the knots that Cam gets when she has a difficult case. She sinks into the touch, shivering when fingers brush along her spine. It’s grounding.

And, Cam realizes, extremely belatedly, she is suddenly single again. And in Corona’s bedroom. Corona, who is her best friend, next to Gideon, and not counting Palamedes for the obvious reason. She can’t fuck this up, too.

“I’m okay,” she says, hiding her face in her arm.

Cor brushes stray hairs off her forehead. “If you want to wash your face--” Corona gestures at the en suite. “Help yourself to anything.”

Cam levers herself onto an elbow and thumbs away stray tears. “Yeah, I’m going to...” her voice is thick with grief and she swallows, blinking it away.

Cor lays her hand over Cam’s on the bed and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right here.”

Cam pushes herself to her feet and makes her way to the bathroom. She winces when she sees her reflection in the mirror and she turns on the tap, ducking her head so she doesn’t have to look anymore. She splashes cold water on her face. 

She’s good at composing herself, but her eyes get puffy and red when she cries particularly hard, and her nose blocks up with snot. She blows it, tries again with the cold water, and dries her face off again.

“Was it really that obvious?” she asks when she emerges again, coat folded over her arm. Coronabeth has sprawled over her bed, waiting. Cam sits down on the edge of the mattress, running her fingers over the sheets. The thread count must be extraordinarily high on these. “Did everyone know except me?”

Corona sits up and Cam wonders if she’s going to hold her again. She liked that.

But no, she just... squeezes her hand once, and then lets go. She doesn’t say anything. For Cam, that’s answer enough. She doesn’t need to poke the bruise. She knows it hurts, and she knows it will heal.

“Want to watch a movie?” Cor asks, after it becomes clear silence will not draw Cam out. “I have Legally Blonde 2.”

“Yes please,” says Cam, and she sits where Corona pats the bed, six inches away, so she can’t lean her head on Cor’s collarbone the way she sometimes does when they’re crammed onto the couch with Gideon taking up three times her share of the space. It's _such_ a big bed.

Cam tucks her knees up into her chest, hugging her legs. It’s a poor imitation of the usual contact she’s gotten so used to receiving during movie nights with Cor, but it’s a small comfort. 

She was right about the sheets. They’re soft under her socked feet and the bed sinks to accommodate her mass. Her breaths have finally stopped coming out as they do at the tail end of a teary outburst, all ragged and tattered at the edges. Her throat is dry, sore with the way she heaved air into her chest. Her sternum aches too, like something had tried to crush her lungs. She gently shakes out heavy limbs and rearranges herself again, sitting up and breathing in deep. 

Cor keeps shooting her strange looks out of the corners out of her eyes. Eventually, she comes to an apparently reluctant decision. “Hey.” She holds out an arm.

Oh, that hurts. Cam doesn’t want Cor to feel obligated to touch her just because she’s hurting. She shakes her head. “I--” She clears her throat. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing,” Cor tells her, and her expression is gentle. “I’m offering.”

Cam hesitates. She doesn’t want to fuck this up. But more than that, she wants the comfort of a friend to help hold her broken pieces together while she tries to not fall apart again. Feeling horribly like she should be doing a better job of resisting, Cam nods minutely and scoots over into Cor’s side. Corona’s warm and safe and her shoulder is the perfect pillow. Cam’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it.

She spends the rest of the movie like that, pressed up against Cor’s side and cushioned in the comfort of companionship. She doesn’t watch the movie so much as the movie just happens before her eyes. Between periodically closing heavy eyelids and stints of awakeness, the movie plays to the end and the credits begin to roll.

Cor’s been stroking her back this whole time, she realises. In the numbness of it all, she lost track of when she started, or when her thoughts quietened in her head. But then Cor takes her hand away, and they rattle back to life. One voice wails continuously in the background, another questions every moment Cam can’t bear to drag up to the surface of her mind, and another still plays what-if. They’re quieter now against the sound of the movie playing in the background, and Cam is grateful for even the slightest reprieve. 

Her phone buzzes again and Cam gives in, turning on the screen. She has many text messages, and they’re all from Gideon.

 **7:27** : _You’ve been at Pal’s for a bit, everything ok?_

 **8:12** : _Hey, Harrow sent me a cryptic message about Pal. You ok?_

 **8:43** : _Love you, let me know if there’s any way I can support you._

Cam turns her phone screen off. “I should go,” she says, throat raspy.

“Okay.” Cor turns to her and pulls Cam into a tight hug. “You know you can call me if you need anything, right?”

Cam nods and presses her nose to the side of Cor’s neck, breathing in her scent. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drodinor is a dwarven deity of the pleasures of the flesh. His shrines can be found by the doors of drinking establishments, local houses of favours, and other places of bawdy and bodily entertainment. His name derives from two figures from mythology. Specifically, it is a portmanteau of “Drunk Odin Thor”.
> 
> Both he and his followers find it very convenient that dwarven eyes frequently fall at tit level when they mingle with other denizens of their favoured establishments.


	12. Harrow's Chickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning throughout for discussion of body piercings. For our friends who are skipping the smut, you’re going to want to stop at _Gideon groans and puts down her magazine_ and pick back up at _“Hey Cam?” asks Gideon the next morning at breakfast_.

D&D nights are full of surprises. This is no revelation. Sometimes though, the surprises are not in-game. 

When Gideon and Cam go over the next week with the snack dragon loaded up with chips and dip, they’re expecting the end of a string of little adventures and to return to an actual town for once. What they’re _not_ expecting, right in the middle of the kitchen floor, is a heat lamp and six tiny peeping bundles of feathers contained in a plastic bin lined in pine shavings. The counter is covered with debris: half-empty bags of bedding and food, library books on chicken care, a spiral notebook covered in Harrow’s familiar handwriting, full of meticulous notes and data.

Per usual, Cam is the level-headed one who claps Gideon on the shoulder and goes to set the snack dragon down on the new D&D table. (Palamedes hates when she does it, but he also hasn’t cleared the kitchen counters, so table it is.)

Harrow kneels in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring at the bundles intently. Upon closer inspection, she’s running her fingers over a ball of fuzz that’s pecking at her hand in the brooder.

“Harrow, are those chickens?”

“Your powers of observation astound me. Yes, Griddle. These are chickens.”

Gideon is coming to kneel on the ground when a terrible pun crosses her mind. Palamedes will kill her if she picks a fight with Harrow right before the session. She considers forgoing the joke in the interest of harmony. Nah. “Is this all part of your grand strategy to pick up chicks?”

“Don’t be crass.” Harrow is too distracted by the chickens to really react, which is kind of a shame.

Gideon laughs and looks into Harrow’s hands again. The tiny chick ruffles its feathers, black and downy. “Why is it goth?” She can hear Cor snort in the background where she’s helping Palamedes set up the table. 

“It was a pain to get Ayam Cemani, so they’re just black chickens.” Harrow carefully cradles a chick in her hand and brings it to her chest, sitting back on the tile floor. 

“What’s an Ayam Cemani?”

“A breed of chicken.” Harrow peers over the head of the chick. “Their flesh is black, too, not just their feathers.”

“That’s pretty gross. I didn’t know that kind of chicken existed.”

“Perhaps if you read more, you’d know,” Harrow says, but the sting is severely undercut by the way she’s cooing at the chick in her hand. She touches each fluffy head in turn. “Their names are Lachrimorta, Aisamorta, Glaurica, Aiglamene, Pelleamena, and Bob.”

Something in Gideon’s chest seizes. She’s sitting down but her knees still feel weak. Harrow’s face is lit up from the side by the heat lamp, a rosy sort of red highlighting the sharp point of her nose and the strong plane of her cheek. Gideon’s entire insides tie themselves into knots seeing Harrow cup the black ball of fluff in her hands. (She wracks her mind, but she can't remember if she's ever seen Harrowhark Nonagesimus smile before. Certainly not like that.) Harrow kisses a quietly cheeping chick and Gideon briefly thinks she's going into cardiac arrest.

And then Harrow looks up and they lock eyes. Gideon holds them, feeling a shiver run up her spine. Harrow’s eyes bore into hers, heavy and filled with a secret brimming at the edges. She wants to know, she wants to--

“Gideon! Harrow! Are we playing or not?” Palamedes asks, and Harrow tears her gaze away, setting the chick down back in the brooder and standing up abruptly.

“Coming.”

They don’t get very far in the game, primarily because Harrow frets at every squeak the chicks make and checks on them every five minutes.

“They’ll be fine,” Palamedes assures her.

“I know,” Harrow replies every time, and goes anyway.

Eventually Palamedes gives in and calls a break. Predictably, as she has done all night, Harrow takes off towards the chicks and Gideon follows behind. It’s clear that Harrow cares about the chicks and now Gideon feels a tiny bit bad about telling her that everything Harrow touches dies that one time they’d exchanged words over the compost pile.

Harrow stands over the brooder and carefully runs a finger over a chick’s head. Gideon stands behind her, peeking over her shoulder.

“Do you want me to help?”

Harrow turns and scowls at her. “I don’t need _help_ with the chickens. I have thoroughly researched this and I am well prepared.”

Gideon backs up and puts her hands up. “I believe you, but if you ever need like, a chicken sitter or something.”

“Why would I need a _chicken sitter_ \--” Harrow shakes her head. “Gideon, why would I trust you with this after what you did to my plants?”

Gideon sighs, pulling an exasperated face. “We’re not seven any more, Harrow.”

“I was six.”

Gideon tips her head back and groans loudly, but then returns to looking over Harrow’s shoulder. The chicks are extraordinarily cute.

A few minutes elapse in silence, the closest thing to companionship that Gideon has ever experienced with Harrow. Eventually, Gideon clears her throat. “Can I hold one?” 

Harrow’s shoulders jerk. She lowers the chick in her hands back down into the bin, and picks up another one. “If you hurt her, I will rip your kidneys out with an ice pick.” 

Gideon holds out her cupped hands, and Harrow passes her the chick. It’s soft and warm and weighs absolutely nothing, claws prickling against her palm. She brings it up to her face. “Hi, you,” she says. The chick pecks her nose.

When Cam comes into the kitchen to collect them, Gideon puts the chick back in the box ever so gently. She can barely believe anything so tiny exists, alive and adorable. 

The next time Harrow interrupts play to check on the chicks, Gideon goes with her.

* * *

On the way home, Cam thrusts the snack dragon into Gideon’s hands. “Can you hold this?” she asks, after Gideon has already taken it, and then digs her keys out of her pocket. “So,” she says, unlocking their front door and opening it for Gideon. “You spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Harrow tonight.”

Gideon can’t even gesture with her hands full, which was the point. “I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with _baby chicks_. Did you not see how cute they were?”

“They were very cute.” Cam follows Gideon into the kitchen, where Gideon puts the snack dragon on the counter so she can begin loading the dishwasher with empty containers. It’s still a novelty. “But I managed to stay at the gaming table while we were trying to break into the sorcerer’s stronghold.”

Gideon rolls the bottom rack home, straightens up, and closes the dishwasher door. “I won’t interrupt play again, I promise. Just-- baby chicks!”

The worst part, Cam decides, is that Gideon seems to actually believe herself about it.

* * *

Harrow’s taking out the recycling when she spots something out of the ordinary. It’s just a regular 8.5x11” letter-sized piece of paper, but it’s perfectly flat among the debris of bills and junk mail, like someone was keeping it safe until they discarded it.

She loves secrets, so she pulls it free from the bin. The first word she catches is “Nonius”, which means there’s 0% chance she’s not going to read this. Palamedes knows her habits too well, and she doesn’t want him to catch her. She folds up the letter and tucks it into one of the pockets on her vest. She can read it later, in safety.

* * *

Swathed in her thick black duvet with her nightgown buttoned up to her chin, Harrow smooths her vest flat and empties her pockets, as she does every night. For once, she’s locked her bedroom door. It’s not necessary; Palamedes never violates the sanctity of her room. But this is important.

She sits herself on her bed and tucks herself into the nest of pillows by the headboard, and opens the paper.

> _“ To be opened in the event of my death._
> 
> _Dear friends, if you are reading this, then I am deader than the pack of trolls we encountered back on Frostspire. Unless they have been resurrected since then, in which case, ignore that. Regardless, I am very dead despite your best efforts to keep me alive. I hope. Such is life, all good things must come to an end and there is no doubt that I am one of the most excellent things. Jenny told me that I should write things down so that I stop forgetting them, and I am not eager for you all to forget me, so I have written something about me for all of you to read and reminisce._
> 
> _Dearest Jenny. You have the most unique name in this entire world. I do not take our friendship lightly and I am grateful for all the times you have been the voice of reason and responsibility. You’re the most morally upright rogue I’ve ever met in my life, but it’d do you good to loosen up sometimes. Take a day off, visit a brothel, do something fun. You don’t have to be a superhero all the time. You’re already a superhero to me._
> 
> _Clarabelle, I’m sorry we made you fight a demon lord the first day we met. But wasn’t it awesome? You’ve got the biggest arms and the biggest heart and also the biggest balls of anyone in this party. I’d trust no one else to hold the line and go toe-to-toe with the deadliest creatures known to exist. You should have my sword if it still exists. I know you like your smashing hammer and shield thing, but you should give a good two-hander a try sometime. It’s a real soldier’s weapon and it’s never served me wrong. Please protect Nonius, we both know that if you sneezed too hard he’d fall on his ass. I’m eager to see you all again, but not that quickly._
> 
> _And Nonius-- I will never regret the many glorious deeds we shared, nor the mead we quaffed! You better keep on our mission of tasting all the mead the world has to offer and then fill me in when I see you again. My one regret is that I never told you how much I loved you. It is my hope that one day we will meet again in the halls of Valhalla. I hope Crux grows up big and strong-- as much as a skeleton lizard can grow-- and that he’s good to the man who raised him. Crux, take care of Nonius. All you’ve got going for you is your tiny teeth and a deceptively charming little skull, but your wizard just might be as fragile as you. He’s important to me. Keep him safe for me._
> 
> _I’m running out of ink and it is getting late. I am tired. Goodnight friends, carry on the good works and do not forget your dear friend Gork. I certainly won’t forget you. See you all on the flip side. ”_

Harrow turns the page over in her hands. The other side is blank. She turns it back over and reads it again, underlining each word with her nail as she goes. 

“See you all on the flip side.”

Harrow folds the letter back and sets it aside on the dresser by her bed, crossing her hands over her stomach. Well fuck.

There’s no way of making heads and tails of that. Or, at least of the part addressed to Nonius. The others, Harrow still understands. Surely, this is Gideon messing around with her? Gideon hid little jokes and laughs in the messages to the others, why wouldn’t Gork’s love confession also be a laugh?

Two can play at this game. Harrow tucks herself underneath her sheets and closes her eyes, the beginnings of a plan forming at the edges of her mind as she falls asleep.

It’s been two months since Gork’s close call, but Harrow thinks she knows a way to make this work.

* * *

Harrow emerges from the kitchen after Gideon settles into her usual seat at the new table and takes the seat next to her-- Cam’s seat. Gideon’s eyebrows go up, but she doesn’t say anything. Cam puts the snack dragon down on the sideboard in its place of honor and sits down next to Coronabeth. Apparently, they’re not going to talk about the new seating arrangement. All right, then.

“We left off as you were fleeing the collapsing tower of the sorcerer’s stronghold,” says Palamedes. “Rubble crashes down behind you. What do you want to do?”

"I put Crux down my shirt for safekeeping," says Harrow.

"Wait, Crux doesn't have anything to hold onto,” Gideon protests. “Won't he fall right out the bottom?"

Harrow very slowly raises one eyebrow. "Nonius peels up the bottom of his jerkin, revealing a row of subdermal bone barbells on the flat of his left rib cage that lead up to a nipple piercing. Crux is perched on these, securely hanging on to the jewelry."

Cor tips her chair back on its hind legs. "What, did you keep your shirt on during the whole visit to the brothel?"

"Yes," says Harrow. "I am very shy. I wanted to see how Gork did it."

"So you just watched? The whole time?"

Gideon is perplexed, but she rallies. She slaps Harrow's back. "Next time, you will participate! For the honor of Drodinor!"

"Nonius lowers the hem of his shirt again."

"Wait!" says Gideon, leaning close. "Gork reaches out to touch the lowest piercing. Did that hurt?"

Harrow rolls her eyes. "Of course it hurt. But it's worth it to keep Crux safe. And Nonius strokes the back of Crux’s lizard head. The bones in his spine clack together as he wriggles happily."

"Hey, little buddy," says Gideon. She’s gotten out of her chair again to simulate the height difference, and she addresses the words to the top button of Harrow’s vest. "I'm sorry I smashed you under the pillar. Next time, we're gonna make sure you get out in time."

"Crux leaps off of the nipple piercing," says Harrow, "and runs up your arm, Gork. He forgives you."

Cam’s left eyebrow lifts up a full inch to pair with an amused little smirk. Gideon takes it in stride. “I’ll make it up to you with scratches, I promise.” Gideon mimicks scratching a tiny head on her arm. “I’m keeping him for the next little bit.”

To her pleasant surprise, Harrow doesn’t dispute it. The rest of the game is spent amicably and when Gideon feels Harrow’s eyes on her, she pretends to scratch at the skull of the bone lizard supposedly chilling on Gork’s shoulder. Harrow gives her a close-lipped smile, small and conniving, and Gideon smiles back. 

  
  


* * *

Harrow is feeling smug after D&D. It feels like she scored a point against Gideon, who had reacted even more beautifully than Harrow could have imagined. It makes her linger downstairs as everyone picks up their things, replete with satisfaction. 

Cam corners her in the kitchen, wielding the snack dragon like a blade until Harrow’s back hits the closed basement door. “Why did you tell Gideon about your nipple piercings? This is going to make her awful to live with.”

“I did no such thing, Camilla.” Technically, she told Gideon about Nonius’s nipple piercings, and the character is different from the player. That they share this particular characteristic is almost entirely coincidental.

Rolling her eyes, Cam jabs the tip of one of the dragon’s wings into Harrow’s upper arm. “I’m not stupid.”

“I--” begins Harrow, but it turns out she doesn’t want to baldly lie to her friends. “You don’t even know if I have nipple piercings.”

“Yes, I do.” Cam takes the dragon away. “Palamedes told me you whined for a week when you got them done.”

Her roommate is a _traitor_. “Don’t tell her,” says Harrow. It’s not frantic. Just a simple request, the kind that one might make of a friend.

“I won’t,” says Cam. “But you weren’t very subtle. Odds are, even Gideon can guess.”

Well. Even if the evening wasn’t an unmitigated victory, Harrow still feels a warm glow inside her chest. She feeds the chickens and goes to bed, feeling at peace with her life.

* * *

Gideon groans and puts down her magazine. It’s everything she likes: lush curves, lots of tit, enthusiastic participation featuring up to four women at a time. There’s absolutely no reason it isn’t working for her.

But not only is the perfectly good magazine not working, it’s already late, and she wants to get to sleep. She has work in the morning. It’s time to cut her losses and find something that does work.

She heaves herself out from under her covers, naked, and pulls her collection out from under her bed. The contents have shifted since the last time she put it away. An old favorite sits on top, but one of the characters looks way too much like Harrow for comfort. Since she accidentally moved in next to her old enemy, she’s had to seriously limit how often she reads it. Now that they have this strange chicken-induced truce, it’s absolutely out of the question. She keeps looking: she has plenty of other magazines featuring women who don’t look a bit like anyone she knows in real life.

There, at the very bottom of the box, Gideon finds it. It’s _not_ one of her favorites, but her blood heats anyway when she sees the nipple piercings on the cover. Well, obviously nipple piercings are hot. Gideon loves tits.

Piercings are just in her head after the D&D session, apparently. But everyone in this magazine has comfortably ample curves. It’s nothing at all like Harrow, who has sleek curves, small enough that anyone could be forgiven for missing them entirely. It’ll do.

She shoves the box under the bed and rolls back under the covers. A few pages later, and she can already tell it’s working better. The painful oversensitivity has subsided, and her hand glides smoothly, just the way she likes it. Besides, some of the women in this magazine have really intriguing tattoos.

When her brain starts offering up some original material of its own, she’s too worked up to want to stop. A pointy, mocking face materializes by her side, even though her eyes are closed. “Thinking of me again, Griddle?” the imaginary Harrow says. And it turns out that Gideon _is_ , that Gideon has spent enough time with Harrow that it’s appallingly easy to guess what Harrow’s body might look like when she’s not wearing a blazer and a vest and a tie over a button-down, when the only things she’s wearing are her many piercings. Including the damn barbells through her nipples. The image has no business being this hot.

She doesn’t answer her fantasy-Harrow, just turns her face away into her pillow. Maybe if she ignores it, she can think of something else. If she has to think about real people, anyone else would be better-- Corona, Cam, her entire hockey team at once-- even _Palamedes_ would be better.

“Slow down,” says the apparition of Harrow, persistently intruding in Gideon’s private bedroom. Unwillingly, Gideon slows, and it’s just right, another layer of pleasure building just under the first one.

“You’re not going to last for me, are you, Griddle?” 

She’s not, she’s right on the edge, and she finds herself balancing there for as long as she can, which turns out not to be very long at all. She comes hard, thinking of Harrow’s lips rounding the words “I forgive you” against the skin right behind her ear.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

“Hey Cam?” asks Gideon the next morning at breakfast. “Does Harrow have nipple piercings?”

Cam chokes on her toast and covers it up with a swallow of coffee. “How would I know?”

“You know things,” says Gideon, darkly, and goes to brush her teeth before work.

* * *

A week later, Cam can’t take it anymore. She can feel one of Gideon’s terrible plans brewing, and the deep sense of foreboding lingers over the house, along with a surprisingly dry and technical magazine about modern piercing technique. It’s time to intervene before things get out of hand.

On Saturday, after they’re done lifting, she beats Gideon out of the shower and takes a book down to the living room to wait for Gideon to join her. It’s one of her favorites, in spite of some truly terrible cover art-- the lady knight Sir Guinevere saves the luscious Princess Tressa and there are some deliciously charged scenes immediately after the rescue that Cam has read so often she’s had to carefully mend the pages with packing tape.

Today, though, she’s chosen it for the cover art. (It’s not the first time she’s done this, because she also brings it out when Palamedes tries to tease her for reading pulp. The midriff-baring boobplate nerd-snipes him every time.) 

She suspects that Gideon will have a less complicated reaction to it. The breasts on the cover are truly magnificent, and Gideon has a narrow appreciation for some of the finer things in life. It’s designed to draw comment.

When Gideon emerges from the shower, tee stuck to her wet skin, Cam can clock the exact moment Gideon’s eyes snag on the cover art. She turns the page and waits.

“I have come up with a list of fourteen reasons why you should tell me whether Harrow has nipple piercings,” says Gideon, all at once.

Cam was worried it was something like that. “I still don’t know why you think I have that information.”

“Because you’ve deflected me twice,” says Gideon. “I know you know.”

“Even if I did know, which I am still not confirming, I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you.”

“Okay, but what if she went into cardiac arrest, and I had to use an AED?”

“The pads do not go over the _nipples_ , Gideon, it would be fine.”

“She’s tiny. They might.”

"You'd perish if you had to do mouth-to-mouth. I doubt you'd still be conscious for the AED part." Cam sets her book aside and pinches the bridge of her nose. This is exactly the conversation she was afraid of having with Gideon.

“All right, but what if we ended up wrestling?”

"Under what circumstances would you ever be wrestling with Harrow?"

“I’m just saying, it could happen.”

“I think that if you were ever wrestling with Harrow, you would already know whether her nipples are pierced.” She lets that implication drop into sudden silence.

“I think I need brain bleach,” says Gideon after a spell, looking very much like she needs something else entirely, alone in her room.

“You’re spending a lot of time thinking about Harrow’s nipples,” Cam points out, because she can already feel a headache brewing and they’re only two points into what’s apparently a fourteen-point list. 

“Ugh, I know,” says Gideon, apparently willing to cop to her unsavory obsession. “It’s like a disease.”

“You could talk to _her_ about it?” suggests Cam, without a lot of hope.

“How?” For a moment, Cam thinks Gideon is actually considering it, but then Gideon says, “Can’t you just tell me?”

“Gideon, I absolutely cannot tell you whether Harrow has pierced nipples,” says Cam. “If you need to know, you should ask her yourself.”

Gideon turns sharp eyes on her. “But you know. Come on, you’re over there all the time, even though you’re not banging Palamedes anymore. You’ve got to know.”

“Yes, I know.” It turns out that the only thing worse than whatever plan Gideon was brewing is this conversation. Cam needs it to be over yesterday. “But I’m still not going to tell you.”

Gideon whoops inappropriately. “She does. She _totally_ does. I knew it.”

Cam really wishes that Gideon and Harrow would just get together and spare them all the dramatics. She texts Corona about the exchange. Hopefully, at least _someone_ can get some amusement out of the situation.

 _It’s going to be adorable when they finally figure it out,_ Corona replies.

At least there’s that.

* * *

“Cam, can I talk to you?” Gideon splays out on a couch in the living room, video game controller in her lap. She pauses her game, something about a woman fighting her way through post-zombie apocalypse America. It’s one Gideon’s tried to persuade Cam to play before, but turns out Cam’s not a fan of the undead shambling towards her, especially when they make clicking noises, and _especially_ not before bed.

Cam pads over the floor and curls into the loveseat beside the sofa. It can’t be any worse than the pierced-nipple conversation they’d had last week. “Yeah, what’s up?” It’s unlike Gideon to call Cam over like this, so either it’s something serious, or Gideon’s nervous. Her posture says it’s nerves. This splay is a close imitation to the usual relaxed flop Gideon does at the end of a long day, but the set of her jaw gives it away. Either way, Cam hands her the floor.

“Harrow has chickens,” Gideon says.

“Yes, she does,” says Cam cautiously. Harrow has had chickens for two weeks now and they’ve been a frequent topic of conversation. They don’t adequately explain Gideon’s body language, and somehow that makes Cam even more nervous.

“So we should get a dog,” says Gideon. 

Cam recoils a little. “To harass the chickens?” It’s not the first time Gideon has mentioned wanting a dog, but the dog-chicken connection seems a little unsavory.

“Come on, Cam, give me some credit,” says Gideon. “It’s just-- the chicks are cute, a dog would be cute, and I’ve always wanted a dog. Harrow has chickens, we should get a dog.”

The logic absolutely does not follow. It’s such a Gideon argument, and it makes Cam’s heart lift. “Dogs are a lot of work,” she points out. Gideon’s a responsible adult, but they both have work and sports and commitments. Cam’s hours in particular are terrible. But again, this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “What’s really bothering you, Gideon?”

Taking a deep breath, Gideon unpauses, saves her game, and powers down the console. “There’s this girl.”

Cam runs her thumb over the phone in her pocket. If Gideon has come out of denial about Harrow, she can’t wait to text Corona about it.

Gideon tosses the controller into the bin, runs her hands through her hair, and squares her shoulders. “I can’t tell you who it is, but I really like her, and I’m worried I’m not good enough for her.”

“Oh, Gideon,” says Cam. Insecurity isn’t Gideon’s usual style. “Of course you’re good enough.”

“Not like that. I’m awesome.” Gideon presses her hands down her thighs. “But it’s been a while, and like-- what if I’m not good enough in bed?”

Cam snorts. “You could try asking Harrow what she likes.”

Sputtering aloud, Gideon grabs a throw off the couch, tossing it to cover her face. “Cam! This has nothing to do with Harrow.”

Gideon is still a terrible liar. Cam takes the pillow she’s been leaning on and chucks it at Gideon’s face. It bounces off harmlessly onto the couch. “Sure, Gideon. What do you want from me?”

Gideon tugs the throw off her face. Her expression is dead serious. “Promise me that you won’t laugh.” She waits for Cam’s nod. “We could have sex.”

“Flattering.” Once Cam thinks about it, the idea has a certain appeal. It’s almost surprising that Cam’s never thought about it before, but their relationship started as that of patient and therapist. By the time Cam’s ankle had healed, they’d settled into a solid friendship.

“My therapist told me to look for help from the people I trust. And I trust you, and I know you know what you’re doing. Unless the sounds I hear when I go to use the bathroom on nights you bring people back are because you’re _actually_ playing Twister.” Gideon gives her a sheepish smile. “Plus, you’re hot.”

Cam rubs the bridge of her nose, exhaling. “Okay, so you want to be friends with benefits and for me to... assess how you are in bed?”

“And teach me how to be better.” Gideon twirls the tassel ends of the throw in her fingers. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Cam cracks a smile. “If you’re so sure of yourself, why do you think you need me?”

“Because it’s _her_ and it has to be perfect,” Gideon says bluntly. 

“Okay, we can build a syllabus,” Cam says, nodding thoughtfully. She leans over and grabs a notepad and pen off the coffee table, entirely ignoring the dog portion of their conversation. She clicks the pen and looks up at Gideon. “So. What did you want to learn?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Why [are the chickens] goth?”  
> “Gideon, you can’t just ask a chicken why they’re goth!”


	13. PINING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Neither of us know more about goats than what we gleaned from a handful of Google searches. This fanfic is not an educational resource. Also, goats are herd animals and advanced-level pets. Do not be Ianthe. Do not get only one goat.
> 
> By the same token, we _also_ don’t know much about chickens. Please imagine Harrow washing her hands after every time she handles the chicks, to Palamedes’s increasing annoyance during the D&D session. Thank you to ArduousJester for imparting chicken knowledge-- we appreciate it!
> 
> Content warning in this chapter for discussion of body image.

After a wet winter, as the weather slowly begins to warm, Corona can see the marks it’s left on their landscaping. "Our fence is falling down," she observes to Ianthe while they’re getting their Wednesday afternoon coffee.

Ianthe studies her nails, French tips shaped into subtle stilettos. "If you’d gotten a real contractor, we could just call them."

"Gideon could help with the fence, too." She’s started a group chat with Harrow and Cam and Gideon to talk about this very idea, and she’s hoping to extract a concession from her sister. "What if we fenced in all three yards together?"

"Why on earth would we want to do that?"

"It would be good for the barbecues," says Corona. "We could invite some of your friends, too. It would be fun."

"As if any of our friends would come to _these_ little barbecues." But Ianthe looks thoughtful. 

Corona knows not to press, not when Ianthe is considering it. Instead, she stirs the last of her whipped cream into her mocha and waits.

"It’s not like I care," Ianthe says at last. "As long as our yard looks appropriate for when we entertain _actual_ company."

"I’ll text Gideon when I get home," says Corona. "It’ll look better than it ever has."

* * *

When Gideon begins taking down their old fence, Corona is _extremely glad_ that they didn’t hire an outside contractor. It’s an unseasonably warm Saturday for mid-March, and, thanks to the exertion, Gideon’s already down to her tank top. It is a very good look. Cam’s still in a light windbreaker, but Corona can see the sweat beading at her temple. It’s only a matter of time until that comes off, too.

"Cor, this is a great workout," says Gideon meaningfully. "You should join us."

Corona looks down at her pale, fluffy sweater, and then at the mud streaked over Gideon’s arms. "I’ll need to change."

Gideon drives her shovel into the ground, loosening the fence post. "What are you waiting for?"

Ianthe isn’t home to object, Corona reasons. And helping out means she's collaborating, not just imposing. She can feel the smile pulling on the edge of her mouth. "I’ll be right back."

* * *

When Corona comes back out of the house, Cam nearly drops a section of fence on her foot. She’d expected the Tridentarius version of work clothes to be several steps away from a normal person’s, but the reality is so much more. She’s layered a violet plaid flannel over a lavender athleisure top, and the jeans she’s chosen hug her hips and thighs. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, a style Cam rarely sees on Cor. It's bright and blonde and bouncy, and it exposes the back of Cor's neck. 

Cam experiences a sudden urge to rock up onto her toes and bury her nose in the nape of that neck, in the orange-vanilla scent that means _Coronabeth_ , to brush her lips over the soft pale skin and find places to bite. Of course, she can't.

Since the breakup, it's become extremely apparent that if Coronabeth had ever really been flirting with her, it was because Cam was a safe and uninterested target. Cor has started to cut off touches that had once flowed freely. Now that it's been long enough that the sting of Palamedes's rejection has faded, Cam finds herself unaccountably disappointed.

She shouldn't feel anything. She has a roommate with benefits, and the bars and clubs are full of people when Cam decides she wants variety again. (It turns out that Gideon is a competent lover, if not a particularly creative one, and she takes direction intriguingly well. If circumstances were different, Cam would be very interested in exploring that, but Gideon remains transparently in love with Harrowhark, and Cam would rather have her friend and her roommate than another disastrous break-up, so she leaves it alone.)

Coronabeth has been her best friend throughout all of this, always there for her at movie nights and around the D&D table and over text messages. Sometimes, Cor even rubs her shoulders. (Gideon will rub her shoulders, too, but Corona's long, soft fingers are so much more talented. Only Cor can reduce Cam into a purring puddle so easily. Of course, Cor inevitably stops after she does that, and Cam can respect Corona's boundaries at the same time she mourns the loss.)

So, Cam has everything she needs and then some. She has absolutely no business lusting after her best friend, no matter how stunningly hot she is. She needs to keep her mind on the task at hand.

Cor seems to have no trouble staying focused. She's leaning in toward Gideon, gold hair nearly close enough to mingle with Gideon's red, and smiling. "I've never taken down a fence before. You're going to have to tell me what to do."

Gideon levers a shovelful of dirt free from the ground, loosening a fence post. "All of these rotten segments of fence need to go in that dumpster," she says, pointing. "Once we've cleared the debris from the old fence, we can start digging post holes for the new fence. That's probably tomorrow's task, though."

Corona bites her lower lip in concentration. "Tell me if I’m doing it wrong?"

"Lift with your legs," Gideon suggests. "We still have games left in the season, and everyone will be pissed off if you injure yourself taking down a fence."

"Got it," says Corona, and bends to the task. Her movements aren’t fluent, not the way Gideon’s are, but she’s trying, giving the task all she can, the same way Cor does everything.

Cam doesn’t understand why Corona’s whole-hearted assistance makes her chest ache. It’s just a fence.

* * *

"Are you really doing manual labor, Coronabeth?" asks Ianthe, the next day, as Corona is changing out of her church clothes. She’s gotten herself a new pair of work jeans, sturdier than the ones she’d worn the previous day. Some aches are making themselves known on her body, but they feel good, evidence of Corona’s competence. Like she deserves the regard and admiration of her friends.

"Gideon and Cam have generously let us use their garage to store the fence material. It’s the least I can do to help," says Corona, primly. "Besides, I missed my workout yesterday. This will make up for it." She doesn’t flex. Ianthe doesn’t appreciate that kind of strength, and the changes aren’t visually apparent yet. But Corona has noted the changes in her own body and delights in the new layer of muscle under her plush shoulders. _Corona_ knows, and that’s all that matters.

"I’m not going to stop you," says Ianthe, which is tacit disapproval. "I’m going upstairs."

"Enjoy," says Corona, pulling on her new safety-toe boots. It’s worth Ianthe’s disapproval to work side-by-side with Cam and Gideon, running the new fence from Palamedes’s house to Cam’s house to her own house, fencing all three backyards into a single coherent whole. (If it weren’t for the pool, they wouldn’t need a fence at all: as it is, they put gates on each parcel of land, so that it’s easy to get in and out.)

"You know," calls Gideon over her shoulder, from where she’s digging post holes ahead of them, "this combined yard would be great if we had a dog."

"We’re not getting a dog, Nav," Cam yells back, but she’s smiling, the sun highlighting the ridges of her cheekbones.

They don’t quite finish the whole fence that day. Cam and Gideon are going to finish the job while Corona’s out having her Monday night dinner with Ianthe. She’s sad she doesn’t get to help with the last little stretch of installation, but sometimes schedules are like this.

The next day, she gets a text from Gideon about twelve seconds after she and Ianthe pull into the driveway after dinner. _Meet us by our patio door._

She goes out in her dress and her heels to figure out what’s going on.

There’s somehow dirt on Gideon’s face, and she’s holding out a sledgehammer. "Saved the last post for you."

Coronabeth looks up and down the fence. It looks done to her, rails and gates installed. Only this post. They’ve saved this deliberately and unnecessarily for her, possibly at the cost of the structural stability of this section of fence. "You didn’t have to wait for me," she says.

"You’re part of this," says Cam. "We finish together."

Cor swings the sledgehammer and drives the post the rest of the way into the ground, making sure her bracelet doesn’t snag on the handle. Gideon fills in the rest of the hole around it. 

It feels good.

* * *

With the fence between their houses down, it’s easier for Corona to cut through the lawn to get to the garage for her now weekly workouts with Gideon and Cam. They’re a welcome break from the rest of her week and Cor won’t deny herself the indulgence of spending a little extra time with her hot neighbours. 

She walks through the open garage doors to the sound of heavy thumps. The sight that greets her is absolute eye candy. Cam’s closer to her at the moment, feet moving with intention while she holds up thai pads and barks out combinations.

"Jab, jab, cross."

Across from her in perfect mirror synchrony is Gideon, gloved up and sweating through the back of her tank top. Her front hand darts out twice quickly to hit the pad, and then she’s swivelling on the ball of her foot in a vicious thwap that echoes in the garage.

"Jab, cross, roundhouse."

They both move fluidly, Cam bringing the pads around just in time for Gideon’s shin to contact them loudly, pushing her back.

"Jab, cross, hook-- shit!"

Gideon’s hook comes a moment before Cam’s ready and the pad comes backwards, Cam’s knuckles knocking into her own chin.

"Shit, you okay?" Gideon tugs her gloves off, tossing them to the ground. They echo, too. After a moment, she follows them up with her tank top, leaving her bare abs glistening in the anaemic overhead lights.

"Yeah," Cam grunts, freeing her hands to rub at her jaw. "Rookie mistake."

Gideon opens her mouth to say something, and then catches Corona out of the corner of her eye. "Hey!" Her eyes drift to the clock hung above the garage door. "You’re a little early. I’d give you a hug, but I’m sweaty." She says it as an observation, not a judgement.

Cor smiles brightly and goes in for a hug anyways. "I got ready early and thought I’d make my way over here." It’s partially true. She often has an hour between being ready to leave the house to go to Gideon and Cam’s and actually getting there, but she doesn’t want to intrude any more than she’s sure she already does. An hour and a half each session is more than gracious; she shouldn’t be asking for more.

"We’re glad you’re here," Gideon says, clapping her hand onto Corona’s back before she turns back to Cam. "You sure you’re okay?"

Cam works her jaw. She has _very_ nice jawline. "Yeah, I’ll be okay."

"I didn’t know you fought," Corona says and picks up Gideon’s gloves, handing them to her.

Gideon grins. "We don’t, but it’s good cardio and endurance."

"Can I learn?" she blurts out, and then catches herself. She’s asking too much again. "I mean, if you have the time to show me. It’s not that important."

"No, no, we can teach you," Cam assures her. "Gideon’s gloves are sweaty, you can use mine." She takes off the thai pads and jogs to her bag.

Gideon claps Cor on the shoulder. "Cam will take care of you, let me know if you want any hockey-related stuff, yeah?"

Cor nods, a little spaced out because Cam is stripping off her shirt. She straightens up, holding a pair of gloves, and walks back over casually. As if _everyone_ looks like that in a sports bra, glistening with sweat, and there’s no possibility that her shirtlessness will rob the breath from anyone else in the room. But Cor can see the line of body hair that goes from Cam’s navel down to disappear under the waistband of her yoga pants-- the treasure trail Cor has been avoiding thinking about for _months_. It makes Corona feel like her own chest is being compressed, even though she made sure that she’s wearing one of the good sports bras, the one she had specially fitted with the padding and the underwire and everything but actual buttresses. There’s a bead of sweat gathering on the bottom of Cam’s ribcage, just barely off-center from the sternum, and it drips down. Cor viscerally wants to lick it off, to trace the path it’s made with her tongue.

Thankfully, Cam appears oblivious to Cor’s distracted state. "Dear god, it’s too hot in here. Gideon, we have to talk about getting better ventilation in here."

"What, not a _fan_ of the sauna situation?" Gideon laughs.

Cam swats at her with the gloves and tries, unsuccessfully, to duck Gideon’s attempt at mussing her hair in return. She runs a hand through her hair to tame it back down and it has suddenly become very difficult for Cor to not look at Cam’s shoulders. It’s that or Cam’s abs, or Cam’s hands, which are holding out gloves towards her.

"I cleaned them after the last time I used them, promise," Cam says. As if that’s what Corona is currently concerned with. Still, she appreciates the sentiment and slides her hands into them, practicing fisting her hands up.

"Okay, hold on." Cam drops the pads and closes her hand into a fist. "Thumb on the outside or you’ll break it throwing a punch."

Cor’s eyes follow the long line of Cam’s arm when she throws a punch out in demonstration. Having knuckles hover an inch from her nose should not be this sort of electrifying, but it’s also the perfect perspective to take in the line of Cam’s shoulder, the flex of her abdomen that accompanies the hip twist, the flash of intensity in her eyes. Cor swallows, moves her thumbs to the outside of her fingers, and squeezes her fists tightly to distract herself.

"Okay," Cam says, looking pleased, "when you throw a punch, you want to rotate your hips like so..." 

This was a mistake. Asking Cam to take time out of her day and her workout to teach her how to box was already pushing it, and now Cor is surrendering herself to the fact that she will be watching Cam’s hips move for the next few minutes until she gets the rotation right. 

"Not quite, you want the twist to come from the ground up..." Cam twists on the ball of her foot and Cor bites down on the inside of her cheek. The cropped yoga pants are an excellent look on Cam, especially with the way they showcase her calves. Calves which are currently flexed and looking particularly lovely at this angle. 

Thoughts entirely unrelated to proper punching technique flit through Cor’s mind. Thoughts akin to how it might feel to have Cam’s leg curled around the small of her back, to have them pin her on either side to the--

"-- and then you get that rotational power in your punch." Cam demonstrates again. "Now you."

Cor attempts a jab. It’s off-balance and uncoordinated. She knows it, even if she’s never thrown a proper punch before (her parents would have had a heart attack and then some if they found out that their precious daughter was involving herself in such barbaric pastimes). 

"Gideon?" Cam calls. "I can’t figure out what’s wrong just from looking."

Gideon drops her weights and comes over. "Show me?"

It’s nerve-wracking to do it in front of another set of eyes. Cor attempts her best anyways.

Gideon makes an appraising sound and nods. "She’s not lining up her shoulders with the punch enough. More rotation. Otherwise, it’s good."

Cam smiles at Gideon and hip checks her. "Thanks."

"No problem." Gideon’s hands are chalked in preparation for a lift and she reaches over to tap Cam’s ass playfully. "Good work."

It leaves a bright white handprint on black yoga pants and it makes it incredibly hard to not stare. It’s even worse when Cam turns around to demonstrate footwork and Cor gets an unrestricted view of her ass. 

Corona isn’t sure whether it’s worse to see Cam’s ass or to be deprived of it when Cam picks up the pads and they start working on combinations. Especially when facing Cam means getting an eyeful of treasure trail combined with sweat-dewed abs.

She understands now why Gideon said it was good cardio. Her breath is short and her shoulders ache at keeping her hands up. It’s nice, though. The sounds of her breath and of pads being struck and of Gideon’s weights being set down fill her mind and push out her thoughts. 

"Jab, hook, hook," Cam says, still bouncing on her toes. Cor gave up that effort a good while ago, blinking sweat out of her eyes.

She grunts in an effort to keep her hands up, bringing the gloves to the pads hard.

"Come on, one more! Jab, cross, hook," Cam orders, bracing the pads for one final barrage. 

Cor throws her punches with wild abandon, too exhausted to keep perfect form. The sound of the hook hitting the pad is immensely satisfying, and even more so is the sight of Cam lowering the pads.

Cor sighs and totters to the bench, plopping herself down and inhaling half her bottle of water in one go. She doesn’t need a mirror to know she looks like she just fell into her pool fully clothed. She closes her eyes and gulps in oxygen like a dying fish.

"You’re dropping your guard on your crosses," a voice says from the garage door and Cor pries a single eye open. What is Harrow doing here?

"How do you know?" Cam asks, taking the velcro straps of the pads off her forearms.

Harrow shrugs. "Anyways, you’re doing it. You have been for the past ten minutes."

Cor closes the eye again and just lets herself sweat.

Gideon’s weights clank noisily onto the ground, and her footsteps thud on the padded floor as she crosses, presumably to confront Harrow. "Have you been creeping on us, Nonagesimus?" 

If Cor weren’t half-dead from this workout, she might even think Gideon is teasing Harrow.

"You were making a racket," Harrow says, and yeah, Corona must truly be out of it because she can’t even hear Harrow’s scowl. "Don’t break your face fighting, Gideon, you’d look even stupider than you already do."

Cor opens her eyes just in time to see Harrow stalk off back to her house. Cam slings a hand around Gideon’s shoulder and Gideon rests her hand over the chalk handprint on Cam’s ass. 

"What a weirdo," Gideon says. She holds her hand out to Corona. "Ready for the workout?"

"What?" Corona takes the hand and reluctantly lets Gideon pull her to her feet.

"You didn’t think you were getting out of lifting, did you?"

Corona groans. "I think I might be dead."

"Hey, you asked for it." Gideon shoulder-checks her and goes to start loading weights onto the trap bar.

It’s still horribly hot. Cor glances at Gideon’s abs, averts her eyes from Cam’s glistening torso. Well. If no one else is wearing a shirt, she can take hers off, too. Her bra covers everything, and it will afford her at least a little relief from the top currently clinging stickily to her back. She digs in with all the grit she can muster, says "I’m in," and strips her top off.

Gideon drops a plate. The clang echoes off the garage walls, and Corona has to fight a smile. Even if she doesn’t have Gideon’s raw power or Cam’s lithe grace, she has glorious curves. It’s good to know that at least _someone_ still appreciates them.

A few minutes later, Corona makes the mistake of looking over at Cam while she shakes out her wrists and stretches her shoulders. Even though Cam’s between sets too, her jaw is clenched.

Corona knows that face, has seen it before on people who have made disparaging comments about her body. (Those people are objectively wrong. If they can’t appreciate the abundant curves of her belly and her thighs, they don’t deserve to be in her life, let alone in her bed.) Cor has cut ties with people for less than the face that Cam’s making right now, and she can’t stop stealing glances out of the corner of her eye. It hurts, all the way from her sternum to the base of her spine. Not that she’s ever had any real hope of sharing Cam’s bed-- but seeing the expression on her face, seeing that confirmation, hits her like an uppercut to the chin without the protection of pads. It’s all she can do to keep herself from getting whiplash.

But she’s staring. She picks up the bar for her own next set. She can’t keep looking at Cam.

She finishes out the rest of the workout in near-silence, cobbling together smiles for Gideon from the jagged remains of her heart.

Usually, she lingers after they’re done. Cam will tell her about what she’s working on, she’ll talk hockey with Gideon, they’ll joke together. She can’t bear that today. 

"I have to go," she says, gathering up the shirt she still can’t quite bring herself to put back on. What comes next should be easy, but in every other way, Cam is so good to her. If she’s going to break her own rules again, she needs time to cope with what she’s learned.

There’s a furrow between Cam’s eyebrows. "Cor--"

With the last vestiges of her strength, Corona stops in the doorway and gives Cam her very best camera-ready PR smile. "It’s just really hot in here. I’ll see you later."

She doesn’t wait for Cam to respond before closing the door behind herself.

* * *

"Do you want to talk about it?" asks Gideon after the door closes.

"I want a _shower_ ," says Cam, stripping off her weightlifting gloves. There’s no reason to stay in gross workout gear if Corona isn’t around.

"You could just tell her that she’s hot. You don’t have to hide it," Gideon says. "You upset her."

"I didn’t _do_ anything." There’s no possible way that Cam can tell Corona how hot she is. Her calibration in that aspect of her life is entirely broken. If she isn’t careful, she’s going to spend the rest of the day thinking about how good it would feel to run her fingers over all of that softness, feel the flesh give under her hands.

"She took off her shirt and you got really weird," says Gideon. "She’s our hot neighbor. It’s okay to acknowledge that."

Coronabeth is so much more than their hot neighbor. Cam doesn’t even know where to start with that. "I don’t want to talk about it." She makes her way to the shower and turns the water on to cold.

The icy water is a shock. Good.

* * *

Corona emerges from the shower, wrapping a towel around her hair and another around her body. She’s still hurt, but she can’t get the image of Cam’s confusion at her precipitous exit out from behind her eyelids. They’re _friends_ , and she isn’t allowed to care about whether Cam thinks she’s hot. She knows she’s hot. That should be enough for her. 

God knows she can get any number of people who _appreciate_ her curves in her bed. It’s just that it’s been nearly a year since she’s dated. Maybe she should think about changing that-- but she has family, friends, a D&D group and a hockey team. She’s _busy_ : her life is so much richer and fuller since she started going to the neighbor barbecues. If she needs to take care of herself, she has two hands and a carefully-curated goodie drawer, and that’s better than a random hookup.

Thinking about that, she meanders downstairs to grab a post-workout snack. She’s absolutely not in a fit emotional state for her sister to be waiting for her, but Ianthe is there anyway. "Coronabeth," she says. "Why is there a black chicken in the backyard?"

Corona blinks. Harrow had mentioned that the chickens were almost ready for their outdoor coop. She looks out the back window. There is indeed a black chicken strutting across the lawn. Just when she thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

She scrambles into a dress, not bothering with underwear. It’s just their backyard; there’s no one around who cares. Technically, the Uggs by the patio door belong to Ianthe; Corona shoves her bare feet into them anyway and grabs a couple of grapes out of the fridge. Now that she’s closer, she recognizes the chicken. "Lachrimorta!"

Harrow has trained the chickens to come when she calls. Corona prays it works for her. She puts a grape down on the ground in front of her. "Lachrimorta!"

Thankfully, the chicken comes to the treat, and Corona sweeps her up in her arms. "Let’s get you home," she tells the bird. She’s so thankful that she doesn’t have any fences between her patio and Harrow’s; she doesn’t want to imagine coping with door latches while wrangling a chicken. When she reaches the door, she knocks hard and then pacifies Lachrimorta with another grape.

Harrow answers the door in all black, with the unusual touch of lingering traces of sawdust on the elbows of her sweater.

"I think you lost this," Corona says, holding out the chicken.

Harrow takes Lacrimorta gravely. "I’m still working on their manners."

"She came right over when I called her," says Corona, following Harrow as Harrow deposits the chicken back in her coop. "I gave her some grapes. I hope that’s all right."

"It’s not ideal, but she’s back now and safe," says Harrow. "Let’s not make a habit of this, shall we?"

Corona almost responds indignantly before she realizes that Harrow is talking to the chicken. She turns and starts picking her way back across the yard.

"Corona?" Harrow calls. "Thank you."

* * *

Removing the chicken from the backyard hasn’t improved Ianthe’s mood. "If you lot insist upon turning our property into a zoo, I’m getting a goat," she says.

"Harrow says she’s sorry," Corona tells her.

* * *

The next morning, Corona goes downstairs for breakfast to find a fuzzy brown animal in the kitchen. "What’s going on?"

"This is Iago," says Ianthe, smug. "I got him from the goat yoga place. He’s barely a year old, and very friendly."

Corona blinks and pours herself a glass of orange juice. There’s a pamphlet on goat care on the table and a pile of goat paraphernalia outside on the patio. A sinking feeling hits Corona’s stomach--this feels just like the time Ianthe manipulated their parents into getting them a bunny when they were twelve and Corona had ended up its sole caretaker.

Iago noses his face up into Corona’s hand. Then again, Corona loved that bunny. She picks up the pamphlet and begins to read.


	14. THIRTEEN AND A GODDAMN HALF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: major character injury.
> 
> Also, content warning: Ianthe does not hold back.

Cam hates to admit this, but she’s beginning to think Gideon was right. It’s nearly a week later, Saturday night, movie night, and Corona is... distant. She’d thought she’d put her lingering worries aside at D&D, where they’d all been busy persuading the empress of the neighboring country to give sanctuary to an enclave of endangered firenewts. Now, though, Corona’s sitting at the very edge of the sofa, and Cam doesn’t dare snuggle into her side the way they’ve always done. Just when Cam thought she’d finally persuaded her friend to wear more loungewear to movie night, Cor’s dressed in tailored trousers and a trim blouse. It makes Cam feel horribly underdressed, braless in a soft top and pajama pants.

Instead of overthinking it, Cam fidgets with her phone, scrolls. Cor has barely texted her since they lifted together.

Corona passes her the wine, giving her that dazzlingly bright smile that Cam has only seen once before, right before Cor had left her standing next to Gideon in the garage. It’s beautiful, polished, impenetrable. Cam hates it. 

Corona has so many better smiles and, suddenly, Cam misses them all, the way she missed breathing normally the one time she’d cracked a rib. Her small smile, when she’s quietly content, surrounded by friends. Her startled smile, when someone compliments her when she accomplishes something. Most of all, she misses Cor’s sneaky smile, the one that betokens imminent mischief, the one that makes Cam want to kiss it off.

She can feel her shoulders creeping up toward her ears with the tension.

“Cor,” she says, desperate to say something to break the tension, but she doesn’t have anything to add. The movie’s playing in the background, the director has committed sins against both cinema and physics, and Cam doesn’t care about a damn thing but the woman posed like Corporate Barbie next to her. “It’s good wine,” she offers, once the silence is unbearable.

“Thank you,” says Cor, with another bright, plastic smile.

On-screen, Cam lets five minutes’ worth of impossible science go by in silence before she breaks. “What did I do? Can I fix it?”

Cor slants a glance at her out the corner of her eyes, and then goes back to watching the movie, which definitely isn’t good enough to merit her attention. “You didn’t do anything. There’s nothing to fix.” Something flickers across her face, and Cam can’t read it. 

Cam feels like she’s been locked out of her own house, and everything she says feels like breaking windows to get back in. “ _Please_ , Cor.”

“You look so tense. I can rub your shoulders?” Cor gives her another sideways glance. It’s a transparent dodge, but Cam feels so wretchedly inadequate she can’t call it out. 

It’s the first scrap of normalcy that Cor has offered her, and Cam can’t tell her no even when things aren’t strained between them. Cam knows motivated reasoning is a logical fallacy, but she can’t chase away the thought that maybe, if Cor puts her hands on Cam’s skin, things will magically be okay again. “Only if you want to,” she says. She needs to find the balance between them, as two single friends who touch. She’s _trying_.

For a long moment only interrupted by on-screen yelling, Cam thinks that this is it, that Corona has finally realized that they can’t be this to each other, that the backrubs are a favor too much.

And then Cor’s hands rest lightly on Cam’s shoulders. Cam can feel her body tense with anticipation.

“Lie down,” whispers Cor, as if she’ll disturb slumbering demons if she speaks too loudly.

Obligingly, Cam stretches out on her front, savors the way Cor’s weight settles onto the back of her thighs and the way the heels of her hands press into her shoulder blades. She closes her eyes and presses her face into a throw pillow, humming with sudden and complete contentment. Having Corona close is _everything_. The pressure of Corona’s palms feels like forgiveness; all the tension drains out from her shoulders.

She does not give one singular damn about the movie. Have Cor’s backrubs always felt like this?

A blonde curl falls over Cam’s shoulder. The orange-and-vanilla scent that means _Corona_ fills Cam’s world. Cor does something absurdly clever with her fingers at the base of Cam’s neck, and Cam moans.

Corona springs back as if she’s been burnt. As well she might, because Cam hears herself make the sound, and it’s suggestive as all hell.

Dammit. She’s making things weird.

Without Corona’s cool, soothing hands on her, all the tension winds tight again. Cam sits up. “Whatever I did, can I fix it?” she asks again.

“It was nothing,” says Corona. “I misinterpreted something, that’s all.”

“Then I’m sorry I didn’t communicate well enough.” The movie’s still playing, but they’re not even pretending to pay attention to it. Shamelessly, Cam mutes the TV so she can hear Corona better. Her voice is a better soundtrack than some bad explosions. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Corona gives her another new smile, this one tentative and almost scared. Perversely, Cam likes this one a lot better.

“Do you want to come see a game?” asks Corona. “They probably won’t put me in, but-- I’d like it if you came.”

The house creaks like Cam’s heart into the quiet as she tries to gather her words. Corona’s hands are right there on the couch cushion next to her, and it would be so easy to thread their fingers together. “Cor--”

There’s a whoop. “You’re finally coming to a game?”

Cam looks up to see Gideon framed in the entryway, arms over her head gripping the molding. She keeps the cursing internal, but it goes on at some length. “Yes, I’m going to a game.” She turns back to Cor in an attempt to salvage the moment, but she can’t catch Corona’s downturned eyes. “When am I coming to a game?”

“Friday?” suggests Gideon. “We don’t have much season left.”

“Friday,” Cam repeats. “I’ll be there.”

But Corona doesn’t meet her eyes for the rest of the evening, and Cam doesn’t know what to do to fix it.

* * *

Corona is unwinding in a bubble bath after dinner on Monday night when Ianthe knocks on the door. That’s never a good sign. “Come in,” she says. The bubbles are covering up anything Ianthe might object to.

The door opens. “Do your friends need financial assistance in purchasing window blinds?” asks Ianthe, by way of hello.

“I think my friends have window blinds,” says Corona cautiously. “What’s up?”

“I had to retrieve the goat,” says Ianthe, with unwarranted dignity. “And your friends were having sex in their dining room with the blinds open.”

Corona blinks. “Which friends?” Now that Cam has broken up with Palamedes, she isn’t aware that any of their neighbors are currently in that kind of relationship. 

“Camilla and Gideon,” says Ianthe. “Would you have a word with them? I really did not want to have to see that.”

“Cam and Gideon aren’t together,” Corona points out. 

“If you won’t talk to them, I will.” Ianthe sweeps back out of the bathroom.

The bathwater feels cold now, the comforting warmth gone as quickly as her sister. The rest of the work week sprawls out in front of her, full of a dozen really annoying meetings. At least she has D&D on Thursday, and then on Friday Cam is going to come to her game. Gideon’s game. Either way, Cam will be there.

It’s something to look forward to, and that’s more than she’s used to having.

* * *

_Tweet!_

The whistle rings through the rink and Corona watches Gideon wheel around the back of the net, adjusting her glove as she makes her way to an end zone faceoff circle. The teams line up in practiced fluidity and Gideon readies for the faceoff. Her jersey tail is half-tucked into her hockey pants, the big number 9 wrinkled in the process. The puck drops. Action starts again.

The puck skips down the ice and Marta dumps it down to the other team’s side of the rink, her line skating up to the bench for a line change. 

Cor opens the gate for them, shifting to the side so they can get onto the bench past her bulky pads. 

"Hey!" Gideon says, sitting down beside her. She’s sweaty, flushed, and out of breath. "How’s the view?"

There’s a tapping on the plexiglass beside Corona and she turns. Cam waves at them both, sitting with a black scarf bundled up around her face.

Gideon waves back, beaming. 

"It’s good, think we’ll even up the score before the game’s done?"

Gideon looks up to the clock and grins. "Easy. Next shift, just watch me."

She’s always so cocky and confident when she’s on the ice and Cor adores her like this. Competitive, but entirely out of enjoyment of the game, shoulders tight but light.

Skates scrape up the ice as another line approaches for a change and Cor opens the gate again. Gideon gives her an exaggerated wink and shifts down the bench, squirting water from a bottle into her mouth. 

The sound of pucks hitting taped up sticks is solid and grounding and Cor eagerly tracks the movement. It’s a noisy game with plenty of shouting and players slamming up against the boards. Strictly speaking, the league doesn’t allow for contact into the walls, but bodies end up there anyways. Somebody from the other team takes a shot and Beth slides down to take it in the shoulders. Cor inhales sharply. They get back up, a player scoops up the puck, and the game continues.

Another line change. Ashley comes in this time and taps Cor’s helmet as she slides in. "Thanks."

Gideon swings her legs over the bench and joins the game once again, flowing seamlessly into action. For all that Corona wants to be out there on the ice in the net playing, there are some real perks to sitting on the bench, and part of that is just admiring her teammates do their thing. 

Gideon chases the puck down, battling for it in a brilliant spray of ice shavings from her heel. The other team gets control of it first and Gideon is in pursuit. Using her body, she drives the opposing player against the boards and pokes the puck out of their stick, flicking it towards Judith. Once again, they’re off to the races. Judith and Marta are wicked fast and they press the advantage, Gideon hot on their heels. 

Judith passes to Marta, darts past a defender and takes the puck back. Circling around the net, she throws the puck back to the middle of the ice where Marta comes in and rifles off a shot towards the net. It pings loudly off the post, the sound cutting through the general din of a rink and Judith and Marta crowd up the net, chopping at the puck while the opposing goaltender throws themself over it, protecting the net.

A whistle blows and Judith throws up her hands. She skates over to the ref with an argument on her lips but then abruptly, she shuts up. Cor follows where she’s looking and her heart leaps into her throat.

Gideon has always gotten up before. That was her thing. Corona’s heard plenty about the time Gideon pulled herself off the ice on a broken ankle, about the bruises she’s taken, and so many other injuries.

But Gideon isn’t getting up. Gideon isn’t moving. She’s laid out on the ice, face down. Her stick is half a body length away from her glove and she’s still. Crumpled and still. The referee comes over and she still doesn’t move. 

Two medics walk out onto the ice and clear the corner Gideon’s in, kneeling down to do assessments. She still doesn’t move.

Cor looks beside her to where Cam is sitting. Cam is a rather impressive vision of composure with steely eyes and hands clasped in front of her lips. Only the set of her jaw gives her concern away.

Cor takes off her catching mitt and presses her hand up to the plexiglass. It’s cold to the touch. It catches Cam’s attention, who untangles a hand, pressing it on the other side. 

The knot in Corona’s throat loosens ever so slightly. It’s the closest thing to comfort she has right now.

The others who were on the ice pull up to the bench. Judith’s frown is deep-set. "I didn’t realise," she says, "I thought she was right there." Marta’s glove comes to rest on her shoulder. There are murmurs of support from the rest of the team. Ashley watches on in silence.

Finally, a stretcher is brought out and Gideon’s form is loaded on. There are signs of consciousness now. Gideon takes off her glove and rests her hand on her stomach. Corona breathes a sigh of relief.

Cam taps the glass. "I’ll go with her. Come after the game?" She mouths.

Corona nods. Though there’s no warmth to be had through the plexiglass from Cam’s palm, it still feels colder when Cam gets up and moves quickly towards the exits to join the stretcher on its way out of the rink.

The referee skates a wide loop and whistles the game back into play. They lose. Without Gideon on their first line and all rocked by the loss, they let up two more goals before the buzzer goes. 

Corona’s numb through the high five lines and when she finally gets her skates off the ice, the coach sets a hand on her shoulder.

"You don’t have to stick around for wind-down and debrief. Go make sure Gideon’s okay and bring her our well wishes."

Cor averts her eyes, not trusting her ability to keep her emotions in check if she meets anyone’s gaze, and nods. She strips out of her gear as quickly as she can and grabs Gideon’s bag, dragging them out to the Range Rover.

Closing the car door behind her, Cor pulls up her speed dial for Cam and puts the phone on speaker. Tossing it into the passenger seat, she pulls out of the parking lot. The phone rings loudly and she blinks tears out of her eyes.

"Cor?"

"Hey," Corona says, and then clears her throat. "I’m driving from the rink now."

"They’re going to run scans on Gideon and they’re putting her in a room. I’ll text you the number."

Corona changes lanes and makes a left turn. "Okay, I’ll get there as soon as I can."

"Drive safe," Cam says, and hangs up. 

She’s pulling into the hospital parking lot when her phone lights up with a text. It’s Ianthe.

 **7:47** : _You’re late._

Cor blinks. The images on her phone are blurry and she wipes at her eyes. Her hands come away wet. When did she start crying? She was dry-eyed in the locker room. Was it on the drive here? She types out a hasty response.

 **7:47** : _I might not be home for a while._

The last time she’d had to rush to the hospital was when her mother’s sister had gone into cardiac arrest. It had been nothing like this, nothing like the sheer blinding panic that had whited out every responsibility Corona has ever had. Then, she’d called the next names on the phone trees and helped to arrange for a meal train and hadn’t felt much of anything at all, let alone this enormous swell of emotion. Maybe it’s hitting so hard because she watched Gideon lie there, still on the ice. She’s not supposed to feel this much for anyone who isn’t blood.

She steps out of her car into the cold night air in the parking garage and shivers. Digging in one of the bags for outerwear, she comes up with a team hoodie-- the ones with skate laces for drawstrings. She brings it up to her face and inhales pine and tomato. _Gideon’s_ hoodie, the one that’s a size too large for either of them. It smells like comfort and home, and Corona doesn’t think too deeply about it before she puts it on and checks her phone for Gideon’s room number.

* * *

  
  


Moments blur together between then and stepping into C-203. All she knows is that the halls of the hospital wind together like a maze smelling of antiseptic and soap. Her breath rattles hollowly in her chest and even though she didn’t even see ice time this game, her limbs feel sluggish.

The bed in the room is empty but the chair isn’t. There, half-slumped in the chair, back facing the door, is Cam. She’s sitting in the dark, seemingly lost in thought.

Corona clears her throat. "Hey."

Cam’s head lifts and turns around, relaxing at the sight of Cor. "Hey," she breathes. She stands and crosses the room, taking Cor’s hand. "Take the chair, Gideon just got taken out to go get scans done. The doctors told me that they think it’s just a concussion but Gideon wasn’t conscious for a while and there’s always a chance for a hematoma-- bleeding between in and around the layers of the brain-- and it could be life-threatening. It’s unlikely, but if it’s there the likelihood of survival decreases and of those, few people ever make a full recovery because the swelling compresses cortical tissue, and--”

Corona pulls Cam into a tight hug. "Shhh, I know. I’m here. It’s going to be okay."

Cam stiffens and Corona has half a mind to let go before Cam goes slack in her arms. The chair is right behind her and Corona gently eases them both over, sitting down and collecting Cam in her lap. 

Cam doesn’t resist. “You smell like Gideon,” she says.

“Her hoodie was on top of her things. It was quickest.” It’s not even true, but Corona can’t quite explain why she took it, even to herself. As Cam’s stuttering breath hits Cor’s collar, it makes Corona worry about what _else_ she smells like. She forms an apology in her mind for not having had enough time to shower after the game. Before she can deliver it, Cam’s hands fist themselves in the stolen hoodie and her shoulders shake like they did in Corona’s bedroom months ago. 

"Oh, love," Corona says softly, stroking Cam’s back. "I know, I’m worried too." She thinks briefly about pressing her lips to Cam’s hair. But she’s broken her rules already. She’s allowed to hold Cam until _Cam_ stops crying, and that provision alone is dangerous enough.

Cor holds her through the sobs and then, shamelessly, after them too. Cam gets up eventually to go wash her face and blow her nose. When she comes back, Cor doesn’t deny either of them the comfort of arms and warmth and contact. Cam folds up in Corona’s arms and they sit like that in the dark until footsteps come down the corridor, when Cam slips out from Corona’s touch and stands by the chair.

A kind looking nurse turns on the light when they come in, followed by Gideon, laying on a hospital gurney. She’s awake and looking rather worse for wear, but puts on her best smile for Corona and Cam when she sees them. 

“The good news,” the doctor says, pushing Gideon in, “is that none of the scans show us anything alarming. In all likelihood it’s a concussion and maybe a neck strain.” He pulls a slip of paper out of his clipboard and hands it to Cam. “There’s information here on best recovery practices for concussions. If symptoms persist or worsen, bring her back, please.”

Gideon perks up on the bed. “Am I good to go?”

“You are. Remember, limit screen time and brightness, rest, and--”

“Be patient, yeah,” Gideon says, and eases herself up to sitting. 

They help Gideon out of the hospital despite her strident protests that she can handle it on her own.

* * *

Harrow and Palamedes wait anxiously by Gideon and Cam’s front porch when Corona pulls her Range Rover close to the house so Gideon doesn’t have as far to walk. Cam parks behind her and busies herself helping Gideon in the house. She’s blocked in, and she can’t bring herself to care. They can deal with it in the morning, after everyone has rested. Palamedes makes to help Corona when she opens up the trunk to retrieve the bags, and then upon seeing their bulk, stays his hand and goes inside with Harrow. 

Corona appreciates the thought anyways. She carries Gideon’s bag up the porch and sets it down past the door. Harrow is walking Gideon up the stairs with a slight air of restlessness around her, Palamedes fluttering behind them like an angular butterfly who thinks he’s physically capable of catching Gideon if she falls.

“Thank you,” Cam says from the living room where she’s leaned against the couch. She has the handout from the doctor in her hands. “For coming, I mean.”

Corona shrugs and smiles. It has suddenly occurred to her how drained she is. She needs a shower after this, too, and then perhaps an hour with a book before bed. “Of course, she’s my friend and teammate. She’d do the same for me.”

Cam gives her a thoughtful look Corona can’t quite read. And then Cam crosses the floor between them and pulls Corona into a hug. 

Corona stands there and holds Cam close. “Keep me posted?”

“Of course. Take care, Cor.” 

Cam lets go and Cor takes her leave back home. Their last hug is justified. It was a goodbye and that falls well within the rules Corona has set for herself. It’s fine and Corona certainly does not think about it any more after that.

* * *

“You’re late,” Ianthe says from the dining table. 

Corona bends down to take her shoes off and leaves them by the door. She hauls her bag to rest by the stairs before sparing her sister a glance. “Can I shower before we have this conversation?” she asks.

“I must say, I’m disappointed,” Ianthe pushes on. Corona sighs to herself and walks to the table, pulling out a chair across from her sister. “You’ve never displayed this level of concern for your own family before.”

Corona eyes her warily. “Should I not have accompanied my friend and teammate to the hospital after I watched her get hurt?”

Ianthe tilts her head and shrugs. “Your friend knew what she was getting into when she signed up to play the known violent sport. How she convinced you to do the same is beyond me; I genuinely thought you would be above something like that.” She waves her hand. “But that’s beside the point. I’m just concerned that you are simply getting too attached to poor company, Coronabeth. You seem to put a lot of stock in these neighbors.”

Corona’s eyebrows pinch together. “I treat them like I would treat you, like I would treat family.”

“No,” Ianthe says, shaking her head with pity, like she’s explaining to a child. Corona hates it. “You don’t treat them like family, you treat them better. Honestly, Corona, when something finally happens, who will you trust to stand by your side? Your family is tied to you by blood. We will always be there. You can’t trust your ‘friends’.”

Something red and angry and hot spikes through Corona’s chest. “They are _loyal_ \--”

“You know _nothing_ of loyalty, Coronabeth,” Ianthe cuts in. “If you did, you would not be _frolicking_ with the neighbors. If you knew of loyalty, you would be spending your time with appropriate society.” Ianthe stops and then cocks her head to the side, her eyes gleaming with a viciousness that curdles in Corona’s stomach. “Surely, Corona, you would know the value of loyalty. Surely when Babs-”

“Stop,” Corona hisses. “I won’t have this conversation with you.”

Her sister’s face immediately softens. “Oh, Coronabeth, darling. I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.”

Corona fumes; Ianthe knows _exactly_ what she’s doing. “I am going to take a shower. I’ve had a very long day,” she says, clipped.

Ianthe puts her hands up in mock surrender. “Very well. Just give it a think through, Corona, I know there has to be a brain underneath all that hair somewhere.”

It takes all the self-control Corona has in her exhausted spirit to not shove the chair out behind her. Instead, she stands with as much grace as she can muster and pushes the chair back into the table. “Goodnight, Ianthe,” she says. Despite her best efforts to not storm upstairs, despite not looking back, she can still picture her sister’s lips curling into a face of disdain.


	15. The Unholy Alliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our friends skipping the smut, there are a couple passages in this chapter that are highly suggestive, but not explicit. Please refer to the end notes for relevant passages and summary notes.

“I wasn’t out _that_ long,” Gideon says in the darkness of the room. She’s laying on her bed with a pair of stupid sunglasses on her nose, hands neatly folded over her stomach.

Harrow sighs. She sits in the corner of the room on a chair, feet tucked underneath herself. Gideon’s got blackout curtains on the windows. Even though it’s four o’clock on a delightful Saturday afternoon, she blends in with the shadows of the room. 

“Cam says you weren’t moving for a long time.”

Gideon waves her hand absentmindedly. “I was only unconscious for like a second. I just wasn’t sure if I had a neck injury so I didn’t move. It wasn’t that serious. Just a concussion.”

Harrow worries her lower lip between her teeth. Gideon’s done a fantastic job trying to convince her that it wasn’t serious, but that doesn’t assuage Harrow’s worries. She was like this in high school too, always convincing people that her broken leg from soccer “wasn’t serious” despite the cast and crutches. 

“A concussion, Griddle, is serious,” Harrow says, “and the sooner you admit it and let yourself heal, the sooner I don’t have to be here anymore.”

Gideon turns her head towards Harrow and the sunglasses tilt off her face. She pushes them back. “I’m a jock, not brainless-- though maybe I’m short a few synapses right about now. I’m a PT; I know these things. And I’m letting myself heal, thank you very much. If you so badly don’t want to be here, why _are_ you here?”

An excellent question, one that Harrow has avoided answering herself. Technically, Corona has a commitment with Ianthe and Cam has work to finish and Gideon shouldn’t be left unsupervised yet. Still, it doesn’t explain why she’s voluntarily alone with Gideon in her bedroom for the second time in two days.

“You’re hurt,” Harrow settles on.

Gideon smirks. “So you care about me?”

Harrow rolls her eyes. “You bruised your brain, Griddle. Don’t think about it too much. Drink your water.”

“Hah, knew it,” Gideon crows, then pushes herself up onto her elbows slowly and reaches for her water bottle. “I like having you around, you know, o midnight hag.”

Harrow doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Gideon shrugs and puts her bottle back, laying down again. “Alright, well this whole _letting myself heal_ thing is kind of boring. Any ideas on how to make it less boring so I don’t put my head through a wall and give myself another concussion?”

Harrow blinks. “None that don’t involve me treating you like a child and reading you a story out loud?”

“That’s actually not a terrible idea,” Gideon says. 

Harrow huffs and gets up off the chair. “If you try and leave this room, you’ll never see the chickens again.”

“That’s unnecessarily cruel.”

“Just stay in the bed.” Harrow leaves the room with silent footfalls and turns towards the study. She pauses only when she sees Cam standing at the top of the stairs, looking all the part like she’s been watching there for a while. “What?”

Cam is silent for a little longer. “Thank you,” she says finally. The hallway is also dark for Gideon’s benefit and there’s some utterly indecipherable look Cam has on. Harrow doesn’t attempt to read into umber eyes shrouded in shadow. 

“It’s nothing,” Harrow replies, and goes to find an appropriate book to read.

* * *

Corona knows that Gideon’s sleeping, and that Cam will text her if anything changes. It hasn’t even been 48 hours. This is normal. It doesn’t stop her from worrying the entire time that she’s out at Sunday service with Ianthe.

She doesn’t even change when they get home, just walks straight across the lawn and lets herself in the unlocked patio door.

Cam’s in the kitchen, making herself lunch. “She’s still sleeping.” 

“Do you mind if I go up?” Corona gestures with her phone. “The whole team’s been texting me for updates.”

“If she’s awake, make her drink water,” says Cam. “She was complaining that she didn’t want to have to get up to go pee.”

Corona nods and heads up the stairs. There's a set of neatly-folded sheets on the hallway table, evidently waiting to go on Gideon's bed when she wakes up. Just in case, she picks them up. She opens the door as quietly as she can, but Gideon stirs anyway.

“Cam?” asks Gideon, her face still buried in pillows. “We can still have sex tomorrow, right?”

Corona freezes. “Hey, Gideon,” she says. Maybe if she pretends she didn’t just hear that, it won’t exist. “The whole team’s worried.” 

Gideon pulls herself out of her pillow nest. “Oh, hey, Corona. I’m fine.”

Corona sits gingerly on the edge of Gideon’s bed. “You scared us all. Cam says you’re not drinking your water.”

Groaning, Gideon picks up the half-full bottle from her nightstand and takes a sip. “Look, I’m hydrating, see?” She sets it down and sits up a little more. “I just don’t like getting up too much yet.”

Corona arches an eyebrow. “We could get you a bedpan.”

Gideon throws a pillow at her. Her aim is off, and it hits the floor next to Corona. “I’m _fine_. Look, I can get up.” To prove it, she eases carefully out of the bed. She’s dressed in shorts and a sports bra. It’s too dark to see whether there are marks on her skin, but she moves like her entire body is one big bruise.

Corona gets up, too. She catches Gideon’s elbow when she wobbles and steadies her as she crosses the room to the bathroom. There’s a thick black t-shirt tacked up over the window, blocking out the light even here.

In the bathroom, Gideon gives her a wry smile. “I’ve got it from here. I promise.”

“You better,” says Corona, leaving Gideon to use the bathroom in peace. The sound of a shower turning on comes from behind the door. Nervously, Corona tests the door handle. Unlocked. Coming from Gideon, that’s a deep concession. She leaves the door closed and, while she's waiting, starts to change the bed.

She's smoothing the blanket over fresh sheets when Harrow arrives carrying a large black sack. “Where is she?” she demands, dropping her burden on the floor with an ominous thud.

“Bathroom,” Corona says, pointing. The stink eye she’s giving Harrow gets lost in the darkness of the room. Abandoning the attempt, she wads up the used sheets and lobs them into Gideon’s laundry hamper. In the other room, the water turns off.

“I have brought her books,” says Harrow, rummaging in the sack. “So that she stops complaining about not being able to play video games. You can go now.”

“The whole hockey team is worried,” protests Corona. “She’s allowed visitors. This isn’t the hospital anymore.”

“She’s _delicate_ ,” hisses Harrow.

“I’m _what_?” asks Gideon, emerging from the bathroom. Droplets of water glisten on her abdomen. She’s wearing a fresh pair of trunks and a fresh bra, and as she walks, she wipes her wet hands on her shorts. “Harrow, I’m _fine_.”

“Get back in the bed, Nav,” Harrow directs imperiously.

“The doctor said I could do some light activity today,” says Gideon, but she’s tucking herself back under the blankets.

“Hrrrrmph,” says Harrow, perching on a dim lump beside Gideon’s bed that, upon inspection, turns out to be a kitchen chair. Someone has positioned it carefully so that the tiny light clipped to the last two chapters of the paperback she’s holding shines away from Gideon’s face. She opens the book at the marker. “Chapter Seven,” she says. “In the House of Tom Bombadil.”

“Can’t we skip this one?” asks Gideon. “I hate the songs.”

“You are the one who wanted to read Lord of the Rings.” Harrow marks her place with her finger. “And Tom Bombadil is part of Lord of the Rings.”

Gideon mashes her face into the pillow. “Fine. Get it over with. Wake me up when there are Nazgûl.”

“Mind if I stay?” asks Corona. “I can get a chair.”

“Don’t disturb her. She’s _recovering_ ,” says Harrow.

“I won’t,” promises Corona, and goes to find a chair. 

* * *

She finds both a chair and Cam in the kitchen. When she walks in, Cam stops pecking at her laptop. “How is she?”

“Harrow is reading to her,” says Corona.

“Can you take her some ice packs?”

It takes some juggling and a reusable shopping bag, but Corona’s been working out, and she gets the chair up the stairs.

Harrow is perched over Gideon’s bedside, reading ferociously in low tones. She does voices for the songs, which is very interesting because she refuses to do voices in D&D. In spite of her threats, Gideon is listening intently, her eyes half-closed but entirely focused on the hunched figure on the chair. As Harrow launches into another song, Gideon makes noises of complaint, but she can’t completely hide her smile.

“I brought some ice packs,” Corona whispers when Harrow pauses to take a sip from Gideon's nearly-full water bottle. Someone has refilled it.

“Oh thank God,” says Gideon, wedging one between the pillow and her temple. She balances the other one above her ear. “Or, thank Cam, probably.”

“It was Cam,” Corona agrees, and settles back on her chair to listen while texting updates to the team.

* * *

Several chapters later, Gideon loses her valiant fight to stay awake. Harrow looks like she wants to stay, hunched protectively over Gideon's sleeping form like a gargoyle over a masonry wall. Corona stares at her pointedly until Harrow sighs and comes along, leaving the copy of The Fellowship of the Ring on Gideon's bedside table next to the bottle of water.

"Thanks for keeping her company," says Cam as Harrow yanks open the patio door.

"She'd better not get injured again," says Harrow. "I'll be back after work tomorrow. She can't be trusted to look after herself."

Cam doesn't look any more convinced by Harrow's argument than Cor is, but they both let it pass without comment.

Once they're both outside, wrapped up in the comforting dark of the brisk March night, Corona pulls Harrow aside. "Are Cam and Gideon really having sex?”

Harrow gives her a very dark look. “Didn't you know? That’s been going on for weeks.”

"Ianthe had said something," Corona says very carefully, "but Ianthe says a lot of things."

"This time, she was right." Harrow sweeps out into the night, the queen of her shadowy demesne.

Dazed, Corona turns and heads in the opposite direction, towards her own home. She has no idea what to do with this new information.

* * *

Rationally, Camilla can understand why Gideon is like this. It’s been two weeks without much more than board games in the dark and so much rest, and Gideon’s restless. She’s been out of hockey for two weeks and will continue to be out for the rest of the season, and they all put D&D on hold despite Gideon’s protests that they continue. 

It just isn't right to play without their barbarian. 

However, this has also given Gideon plenty of time to conspire to make up for every minute they lost. If Cam thought Gideon wearing sunglasses indoors in the dark all day was bad, it’s nothing compared to this.

“Gork would like to sidle up next to Nonius,” Gideon says, and clears her throat, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially. “How do you feel about splitting the cost of a soak at the bathhouse?”

Cam rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. They’ve been at this thinly veiled in-character flirting all night. “Please don’t terrify this town with your bathhouse shenanigans as well. I don’t need to remind you of what happened last time.”

Harrow smiles, mischief in her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jenny, just a pure and wholesome soak in the bath. You’re invited to join us if you’re so worried.”

Palamedes groans. “If you’re going to roleplay this I want to be out of the room.”

“What do you mean? Nonius is going into the water fully dressed!”

Cam laughs. “That doesn’t make this any better.”

Gideon immediately perks up. “Hold on, can Gork see his nipple piercings?”

“Of course he can, wet fabric clings,” Harrow says rather smugly.

“Wait,” Cor interrupts, “Where would Crux hang out?”

“In the water with us. Crux can take a bath too,” Harrow says.

“That feels like irresponsible bone lizard care.”

“Gork, he loves the water, you’ve seen him in puddles.”

“But he’ll sink!”

Harrow rolls her eyes, but with only half the usual intensity. “He doesn’t need to _breathe_ , he’s a skeleton. You underestimate my bone lizard’s abilities. Crux is going to do a tiny little lizard cannonball into the water and then just scuttle around on the bottom.”

Gideon huffs affectionately. “And if he gets stuck?”

“He can climb your leg hair and get to safety, then,” Harrow says, nonchalant. “And if he really gets into trouble, I can make him go _poof_ and bring him back later.”

Gideon screws her face up in fond teasing. “Bold of you to assume I’d let a gecko climb Gork’s leg.”

Harrow’s lips curve up into an even more devilish smirk. “I mean, you sure let Nonius climb Gork like--”

“Nope, nope.” Palamedes stands up, chair scraping as it gets pushed back. “I’m calling the end of this session. It’s late, and if you two would like to...” he gestures with his hand, “do it now when I’m gone, goodbye and good riddance.”

Harrow laughs and reaches up to meet Gideon’s fistbump beside her.

“You two are a menace, you know that?” Palamedes says with a rueful smile, packing up his dice.

“We try.”

Cam takes the empty snack containers and carries them into the kitchen to give them a rinse. 

Palamedes follows close behind and fills a glass of water. “They will be the death of me, I swear,” he says.

Cam chuckles. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I don’t want to hear Gideon and Harrow role-play sex?”

Cam shakes her head and pushes her bangs out of her face, leaning against the kitchen counter. She’ll need a trim soon. “It would be worth it if they’d stop being such idiots around each other.”

Palamedes considers this, sipping his water. Then he pushes up his glasses. “No, it wouldn’t be, but I appreciate your perspective.”

Cam shrugs. There’s a pile of tupperware by the sink and she stacks them up neatly in a bin to bring them home. It's utterly Palamedes that he won't feed himself, but he will do the dishes.

It's been weeks. She's feeling steadier. (She hates to admit it, but he was right. She's gone out a couple of times now, and even though she hasn't brought anyone home yet, the weight of eyes on her body, touches on her skin, remind her of what it is to be wanted.)

But it's not better for him. She can see it in the way he sets himself up in the periphery of the kitchen like a defective fishing pole, casting his hands into the space like lures. 

"Stop that," she says. "I wish I could just fuck you into stillness."

He stops utterly, staring at her. Cocks his head to one side. "Would you?"

It's a genuine question. She does him the honor of thinking about the answer. But the truth is-- she loves him, she loves fucking him, and just because he isn't enough by himself doesn't mean they can't have this thing. "No exclusivity this time?"

"That was your idea," he points out, insufferable as always. "Cam, you don't have to."

She doesn't, and her heart leaps, because even without the trappings of romance, she wants to. 

"Go upstairs, Warden. I expect you to be ready for me by the time I'm finished here."

His chin tilts up, and she knows that the tension he keeps at the base of his skull has just dropped away. Without another word, he goes.

There really isn't much more to do in the kitchen, but she lingers anyway to make him wait. Then she follows him up the stairs.

* * *

It doesn’t take Gideon long after that to be fully on her feet again. All the more so when Corona pulls out the three magic words. 

“Can you help--”

Gideon perks up immediately. She doesn’t at all know what Cor wants done, but that hardly phases her. “Yes, absolutely. What do you need help with?”

“Well, ever since the fence, I was thinking about putting in some raised beds--”

“Yes,” Gideon repeats with conviction. “Yes! Are you free Friday?”

Corona gives her one of her brilliant smiles, with the slightly crooked corner that means it’s genuine. “Excellent. If you make a list of what I’ll need, I’ll arrange for a delivery.”

Gideon pulls out her phone and immediately begins putting together a parts list.

* * *

The racket is what brings Harrow over from the coop where she’s just let her chickens out to free-range in the shared yard. (Ianthe is out, and only Ianthe complains about chickens in the yard.) Glaurica has been particularly fussy today. Hammering, sawing, and drilling have graced the cul-de-sac for hours from the Tridentarius side of their joined yards and she walks over, her big floppy hat keeping the sun’s rays at bay.

“What in the _devil_ are you doing, Nav?”

Gideon’s knees are in the dirt, drilling in one last screw to an upright post coming out of the ground. The beds are already full of dirt, mulched over. A big pile of soil and a bigger pile of mulch mar the front yard of the middle house. As usual, Corona has ordered too much. Gideon bounds to her feet. “Building raised beds! You want to help?” Harrow is about to open her mouth and turn down Gideon’s kind but terribly misplaced offer when Gideon thrusts a staple gun into her hands. “Here, hold this.”

Unwillingly, Harrow takes it as Gideon unspools a roll of chicken wire. “Can you staple where I show you? You just pull the handle and-- hold this, let me show you.”

“Griddle,” Harrow protests, but Gideon has already taken the staple gun away from her again. She catches the roll of chicken wire before it can brain Gideon, who certainly doesn’t need any more head injuries. Perhaps it’s better that her neighbor doesn’t know the full extent of her capabilities. It costs almost nothing to allow Gideon to demonstrate the very simple use of the staple gun. “I think I’ve got it,” she says, after the fifth staple. “Do you want me to finish?”

Gideon beams at her. “Would you? Corona needed to duck inside for a minute, and she can take over when she gets back.”

“I will staple your chicken wire in place for a few minutes,” Harrow begrudgingly allows. It’s not that she minds that Gideon has already done all the tedious mitering for the anti-chicken defenses, as well as all of the heavy lifting. And the staple gun does make a pleasing ka-chunk sound.

“Hey, while we’re here,” Gideon says, when Harrow’s hands are full of staple gun. She cannot defend herself without having to answer inconvenient questions, such as _why are there staples in Gideon’s arm_. “I have ideas for your chicken coop.”

Harrow narrows her eyes. “Are you attempting to say something about my chicken coop, _Griddle_?”

Gideon shrugs. “It’s not that it’s bad, Harrow, it’s really well-constructed and I’m actually really impressed, just--”

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” Harrow snaps. “It’s an optimal use of space.” She crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

“Right, but if you had a chicken tractor, we could compost in place,” Gideon reasons.

“My compost algorithm, Griddle, is nearing perfection. If I compost in place, it’ll throw off the brown/green ratio in the main pile, and I’ll risk fluctuating temperatures.”

“You’re smart. I’m sure you can adjust, and this will be a lot more efficient--”

Harrow is spared from the rest of Gideon’s half-baked argument by the arrival of Coronabeth in booty shorts.They’re an utterly impractical garment for the task at hand, though they’re admittedly very aesthetic.

“Are those holographic skeleton hands on your rear end, Corona?” Harrow asks incredulously. The hands cup her butt cheeks and run from red at the wrist all the way through the rainbow to purple at the tips of the phalanges. It’s gaudy and overdone; she can’t quite look away.

Looking over her shoulder, Cor rolls her hips. The colors stay flat. “No, but they do glow in the dark.” She pauses, sweeps her gaze over them. “Want me to demonstrate?”

Gideon swallows loudly beside her and Harrow thinks about the probability that she could get away with dropping the staple gun on Gideon’s foot. Still, she has to admit that the dedication to style is admirable.

Instead, Harrow thrusts the staple gun in a Corona-esque direction. Right, she is not staying here to be privy to Gideon very clearly ogling Corona’s ass in those shorts. “If I see you touch my coop, Griddle, I will forcibly remove your sphenoid bone while leaving the rest of your skull intact.” She turns on her heel and walks back towards her house.

She doesn’t go far. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Gideon to put up raised beds. She just has chickens to return to their coop before dark. Chasing them all down in the twilight is an enormous chore. Privately, she can admit to herself that all-black chickens have a few practical drawbacks. It’s worth it when she sees Aiglamene’s glossy feathers making a dark silhouette against the bright green bushes as she pecks bugs from the soil. Even better, Bob will sometimes startle Palamedes when he’s having his morning coffee: she likes to nap roosting on the kitchen windowsill when she’s not in her coop.

The point is, she has a valid reason for her presence in the bushes that form a partial hedge between the Tridentarius property and the middle house. She strokes Aisamorta’s cape to calm the bird, because when she spies Gideon’s face through the leaves, she decides she doesn’t want to explain herself, no matter how good her reasons are.

Corona’s standing too close to Gideon, close enough to touch hands. Gideon tips her face up to Corona’s, smiling like a fool. Emotion flares in Harrow’s chest, as messy and unwelcome as a grenade in her living room. Aisamorta takes advantage of the distraction, hopping out of her arms to scratch in the dirt, clucking softly.

Across the yard, Gideon pulls her lanyard out of her pocket and gives Corona a key. It’s too far away for Harrow to tell which one, but then she has to watch as Corona tucks it into her bra before they start gathering up the afternoon’s debris. Shoulder-to-shoulder, arms full of tools and scrap material, they cross the yard to Gideon’s shed.

Harrow hunches deeper into the bushes. She can finish gathering up her chickens when the blonde and ginger menaces have gone home.

* * *

It’s really too late on a Friday night in early April to be doing construction. But Cor has had a busy week at the office and this is the first day she’s had any energy left after getting home. They have flood lights in the backyard for a reason.

Besides, Gideon has given her a key to the tool shed. She is allowed to do this. And she wants to get the fencing up around the tomato beds before Aisamorta digs them all up again. Her plant delivery is scheduled for Monday afternoon. Gideon has volunteered to help her get them in the ground.

By now, she knows her way through Gideon's backyard better than she knows her way through her own. Even in the dark, it's easy to get the tool shed unlocked and pull out the hardware that she had stored there when Gideon was helping her.

With her newly-purchased toolbelt slung low around her hips, she picks her way back across the yard when the light from Cam’s kitchen catches her eye. It draws her in, the way Cam always draws her in.

It’s dark out, so it’s easy to see through the window. She sees the dark swing of Cam’s hair first, cropped neatly at her chin. Yesterday at D&D, Cam had complained about it getting too long and said she was getting a haircut. It looks good. (It always does.) Corona approaches, thinking of knocking on the back door and telling her so, but then she realizes what’s different. Cam’s sitting on the counter, which Cor has seen before, but she’s also stark naked, which Cor hasn’t.

It is absolutely wrong to spy on her naked neighbor. Corona knows better. But she also can’t resist temptation, and especially not when Cam tips her head back like she’s laughing.

Or-- Corona gets closer-- not laughing. Because there’s a flash of red between Cam’s long, bare thighs. Strong, competent hands grip Cam’s hips-- hands Corona knows well, because they’ve flipped burgers and built raised beds and fixed cabinets for her.

She can’t be upset that Gideon is going down on Cam in their kitchen. It’s-- it’s private property, and they’re consenting adults, and it’s exactly what Corona had thought they were doing together back when they’d first moved in. She should be happy for them-- they obviously love each other, and Cam and Gideon make a lot more sense together than Cam and Palamedes.

Ianthe had told her she’d never be enough for them. Ianthe had warned her. She knew better than to hope, knew that this was going on. It shouldn't be a surprise.

But seeing it is different. Watching Cam ruffle Gideon’s hair, learning exactly how Cam arches her back in pleasure.

“If you don’t want to see this, I advise you to avoid the backyard on Fridays.”

Corona startles. Harrowhark, black-clad as usual and nearly invisible in the darkened backyard, has materialized at her elbow. “Why Fridays?”

“Friday has been their day for sex since Gideon got injured. Before that, it was Mondays.” Harrow pulls a fat journal out of a pocket, flips a few pages, closes it, and puts it back. “They never do the same thing twice.” 

“Have you been _watching_?” Of course, Corona is watching, too.

Harrow shrugs. “You have questions, I have information. You know how to reach me. Goodnight, Corona.”

Corona watches Harrow meld back into the shadows and she stands under the kitchen window for a minute more before she too turns and heads for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passages containing smut or smut-like objects:  
>  **Passage #1**  
>  _Begins at:_ “She can see it in the way he sets himself up in the periphery of the kitchen like a defective fishing pole, casting his hands into the space like lures.”  
>  _Ends at:_ “It doesn’t take Gideon long after that to be fully on her feet again.”  
>  _Summary_ : Palamedes and Cam decide to return to sex, albeit without the exclusivity.  
>  **Passage #2**  
>  _Begins at:_ “It’s dark out, so it’s easy to see through the window”  
>  _Ends at:_ “If you don’t want to see this, I advise you to avoid the backyard on Fridays.”  
>  _Summary:_ Corona catches Gideon and Cam having sex from the window in the evening while getting tools for continue to construct raised beds. Harrow offers her information with regards to Gideon and Cam.


	16. The Pavilion and the Shoulder Rub

“Cam! Wake up!” It’s earlier than either of them like to get up on a Saturday, but Gideon’s spent the past week making sure that all the lumber is cut and measured. She’d taken the previous Tuesday off work to accept delivery of the concrete for the foundation, pouring it into the area she’d dug out and leveled the previous weekend. It had taken her several hours after work on Wednesday to install the pavers that make up the flooring. There’s a beautifully-tarped pile of shingles and beams right next to the construction site. They’re going to finish putting the pavilion up this weekend. So sue her, Gideon is excited.

A horrible noise emerges from Cam’s bedroom, followed by Cam herself, hair highly rumpled, in a tank top and underwear. “You better have coffee.”

Gideon thrusts the mug forward. “Pavilion day!” It’s going to take the better part of the weekend to build out the posts and then frame, deck and shingle the roof, but Gideon’s hoping that, with the offers of help she secured on D&D night, many hands will help them get it done before dark on Sunday. Because if they don’t finish, she’ll be working on it every night after work until it’s done. Their first barbecue of the season is next week.

“Give me fifteen minutes to change.” Cam sips the coffee and adds, “You’re an obnoxious shit, and I don’t know why I like you.”

"I love you, too," Gideon hollers as the door slams in her face. Satisfied, she goes down and starts taking the tarps off the beams. There’s dew misted over the plastic; she shakes it off into the grass and turns around to find Corona standing right behind her. 

Cor’s wearing compression shorts and a form-fitting top under a flannel shirt that’s concession to the brisk early morning, but it’s May now, so it’ll warm up quickly. 

“You didn’t have to be here so early.” Gideon had asked Cor to come over around ten, after she and Cam have gotten the posts up.

“I saw you out the window. I wanted to help.” Corona gestures at the Tridentarius section of the lawn and its row of raised beds, now brimming over with growing plants. “You helped me.”

“I just need one person to help hold the posts, but Cam should be out in a minute.”

“I can do it too-- you’ve seen me in the gym.”

Gideon has _definitely_ seen Corona in the gym, and in the locker room after hockey, and, now that the weather is just barely warm enough to swim, in the pool. She inclines her head, conceding the point.

“Besides,” Corona adds, tossing her ponytail. “I’m taller.”

Gideon grins, lopsided. “Then let’s install some posts.”

It goes even faster when Cam joins them twenty minutes later: Corona and Cam take turns hauling posts into their brackets, and Gideon aligns them against the plans, clamps them, and then fastens them in place. It’s strange to have so much help: she’s used to doing the heavy lifting for projects on her own. She misses the exertion, but the company more than makes up for the loss.

By the time Harrowhark arrives, with Palamedes in tow, they’ve gotten enough posts up that they’re able to start installing the beams. 

“Your brute strength is wasted on what you’re doing,” Harrow says, by way of hello. “Give me those.” She holds her hands out for Gideon’s tools.

“Do you need me to show you how to use them?” Gideon doesn’t know why she’s so reluctant to pass them over.

“It’s a level and an electric drill, Nav,” says Harrow, snatching them from Gideon’s hands. She shoves the level in a vest pocket and ascends the stepladder. “I think I can figure it out. They aren’t complicated tools.”

“Does anyone need water?” Palamedes asks, eyeing the construction warily. 

“There’s a cooler in the kitchen,” Gideon tells him from under the weight of the beam that she and Corona are holding in place. “If you want to bring it out.”

“Hold the beam _steady_ ,” Harrow snaps. “If that’s within your capabilities, Griddle?”

Gideon holds the beam steady. 

* * *

By lunchtime, they have the basic structure up, the bare rafters naked in the sun. The cooler is full of sandwiches and bags of chips, and they all gather together at one of the picnic tables in the shade of a tree. Harrow reapplies sunscreen and then buries herself in Gideon’s plans, which she has appropriated for herself while Palamedes pours soft drinks.

Palamedes looks at them. They’ve fallen into their usual seating arrangement, and he’s at the top of the table. He raises an eyebrow and says, “Where last we left off, Gork and Nonius were squabbling about--”

Gideon throws a potato chip at him.

* * *

It’s a lightweight, practical stepladder. Dragging it around isn’t the problem: it’s just annoying that Harrow can’t reach without it, when Gideon and Cam and Corona can. She’s going to get these sunshade mounts installed, even if it takes her twice as long as it would take anyone else. She doesn’t see why Gideon didn’t do this as part of the prep work.

She measures the location, marks the point, and lifts her drill.

“That’s the wrong place, Harrow,” Gideon calls from the roof, where she’s installing the decking. “Do you have the right version of the plans? I had to move them so that they’ll give us a little more shade coverage during the time of day we usually have barbecues. Cam helped me find the data and do the math.”

“My mistake,” says Harrow, faintly. She checks the plans again and adjusts the position. It really is an improvement from the original proposal.

* * *

When nightfall hits, Gideon plugs in the solar panel to the electrical. They haven’t finished installing the panel yet, but the underside of the pavilion roof lights up with lines of twinkling LEDs. A soft glow illuminates the pavilion interior.

Even unfinished, it’s beautiful.

* * *

Sunday is shingle day, and Gideon is trying to keep Harrow from getting onto the perfectly safe roof of the pavilion. 

“It’s a _hammer_ , Griddle. I am not entirely helpless, no matter what you think.” Shingling is a thankless task, and Harrow would be happy to leave Gideon to it. But it’s also the kind of precision work that’s Harrow’s specialty, and she promised to help. She can’t heave around 200-pound wooden posts the way Gideon and Cam and Cor can, and she refuses to be reduced to a gofer. (Palamedes seems happy to fetch snacks and refill water bottles. He doesn’t need her help, and Gideon _does_ , whether she’ll admit it or not.)

Gideon holds tight to the ladder while she scrambles onto the decked roof. 

Harrow rolls her eyes and settles onto the edge of the pavilion. There’s a grade, but it’s shallow. “See? I’m perfectly fine.” She pulls over some shingles and begins installing them. 

“Coming up, Cor?” Gideon asks, still holding the ladder.

Corona eyes the way Harrow’s legs dangle off the roof. “Absolutely not. No. What if I fall through?”

“Are you… insulting my carpentry?” Gideon looks affronted, and Harrow has to conceal a smile.

Corona shakes her head vigorously, so that her ponytail swishes in the wind. “I'm not small!”

“It supports me just fine. We built it solid.” Gideon thumps one of the beams in demonstration.

“I am six inches taller than you.” Which doesn’t change the fact that the roof will definitely support her.

“Are you afraid of heights, Coronabeth Tridentarius?” asks Gideon, standing far too close to the blonde.

“Not when they’re flat.” She gives the extremely mild grade of the pavilion roof a dirty look.

“Fair enough,” says Gideon. “Cam?”

“I’ll hold the ladder,” says Cam, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Is there really space up there for more people?”

The pavilion is large enough to hold all four picnic tables Gideon has built. Gideon ignores this obvious deflection and climbs up the ladder herself. “You doing okay up here, Harrow?”

Harrow has already gotten half a row of shingles installed while Gideon chattered on the ground. “Perfectly fine.” It’s insulting for Gideon to check in on her when the progress she’s made is visibly apparent. At least Gideon doesn’t _press_.

By the time they break for lunch, the sting has mostly faded, but when Gideon refuses to get off the roof until Harrow is safely on the ground, Harrow decides that it’s time to even the score, just a little bit.

It’s really not hard to set it up. Gideon always underestimates her; she never sees it coming. Harrow waits until Gideon is standing on the grass, admiring her handiwork, hands empty and nothing but lawn behind her. Like a bowling ball to a pin, Harrow charges Gideon. Ducking low, she grabs around Gideon’s knees and launches her shoulder into Gideon’s stomach. Gideon lets out an “oomph” above her and they tumble backwards, knocking Gideon onto her ass in the grass.

For a second, Harrow thinks she’s hit too hard because Gideon just lays there sprawled out. She’s heard Corona talk about how it was to see Gideon unconscious on the ice. But it’s been weeks and weeks since the concussion, and Gideon has made a full recovery. She’s okay. She has to be okay. The lawn is _soft_.

And then Gideon sits up, the corners of her golden eyes crinkled and her gaze fastened on Harrow like a leech. “That was _awesome_ ,” she says. “Can you do it again? Will you show me how?”

“You wish, Nav.” She walks away from the spotlight focus of Gideon’s eyes. Even facing away, the intensity itches between her shoulder blades. “We have shingles to install.”

* * *

It gets markedly more difficult to not notice after catching Cam and Gideon in the kitchen. Corona isn’t sure how she hadn’t made note of it before, but the friend-touches between Gideon and Cam linger now and once Corona starts noticing, she doesn’t stop. Gideon nuzzles into Cam’s shoulder during workouts and Corona often arrives at the middle house for their weekly movie nights to see Cam’s arm slung low around Gideon’s hips with a book in hand. It’s a comfort Cam’s never shown around her, an easiness Corona envies terribly.

She wants Cam. This much is clear to her. She’s wanted Cam ever since she and Gideon rolled up into their little cul-de-sac, all the way through the Palamedes debacle, and then the breakup where she restrained herself lest she become a rebound, and now, Cam is with Gideon. To what extent, Cam isn’t sure. Despite the Friday night run-in and the bolder casual affection they share, there have been no other overt signs of a relationship change. Corona doesn’t want to pry, at least not in such a bald-faced manner, but she has an inkling that if she asked, Cam would deny that she and Gideon are in a relationship.

And that is precisely the reason why Corona crosses the backyard at the season kickoff cookout when Gideon is busy with the grill and Cam is busying herself with Gideon’s hockey teammates. Harrow is standing there by her chickens supervising while a few of their guests ooh and ahh at the new addition to the enlarged backyard. If Corona didn’t know better, she’d say Harrow is preening. She takes Harrow by the crook of her elbow and gently tugs with a pleading look in her eye and guides them both to the back of the shed where they can hide. Harrow squints suspiciously at the location choice, but Corona ignores it. It’s better if this conversation happens where nobody sees.

“If anything happens to my chickens while we’re here, Tridentarius, I will do something utterly unspeakable,” Harrow says, and while it’s a firm reminder of how creepy Harrow can be, it has none of the same animosity there had been a year and a half ago.

“This will take three minutes,” Corona promises. “I wanted to talk to you about Friday night. You know, _that_ one.”

Harrow’s eyebrows lift a quarter of an inch. “Oh. _Oh_.” Her lips curl into a cunning smile. “What can I do for you?”

Corona rubs at her nails. “You said you have answers to my questions. I want Cam. You want Gideon-- don’t give me that look, I _read_ people for a living.”

Harrow’s face irons itself back into impressive impassiveness. “When?” she asks.

“Oh, hmm, since Friendsgiving?” Cor says and Harrow winces. “Friendsgiving, the way you looked at Gideon when she held the baby chicks, you tackling her earlier this week, Gorkius--”

“Gorkius?”

Corona waves her hand. “Gork and Nonius never stop flirting in-game. I ship it. But that’s besides the point. The facts are that I want Cam and you want Gideon.” The words hit air, words she’s never voiced out loud before today, and her stomach clenches. She bites her tongue: nerves sometimes make her babble. It feels like a betrayal of confidence to tell Harrow that Gideon is also a weenie over her-- the signs are glaringly obvious; surely Harrow can read them for herself?

“You want us to break up Cam and Gideon,” Harrow says, voice carefully neutral.

It sounds wretched put that way. “I don’t want to break them up. I just want to show them that they have... alternative options.” It gnaws at her that she missed her chance -- or worse, that Cam has never looked at her like that. She doesn’t understand what’s wrong with her. It’s not like she hasn’t, at various times, felt everyone’s eyes on her cleavage at D&D. Even Palamedes has looked. But Cam never even offered. She just went straight to Gideon for sex or companionship or whatever’s going on there.

It shouldn’t hurt. 

Harrow squints at her and Corona holds her breath. “... fine,” Harrow says finally, and Corona sighs in relief. “I will go back to my chickens now. Leave from the other side two minutes later. Do not contact me about this; I will text you.” Harrow abruptly about-turns on her heel and makes her way back to the coop. 

Misery acquaints one with strange bedfellows, Corona supposes. She waits impatiently, tapping her toe until two minutes pass, and then she emerges from the other side of the shed just as Harrow had asked.

She wonders if Gideon’s put the beets in the salads today.

* * *

“You’re in a good mood today,” Cor comments. A movie plays on in the background but neither of them are paying much attention in particular. Cam had sent her a text earlier that Gideon was out at work and Cam had the day off, inviting Cor to the middle house for wine and some time spent together. Why Cam would choose to spend precious downtime with Corona, Cor can’t answer, but she’s flattered nonetheless.

Cam sits along the couch beside her, leaning back on a hand. Her long legs stretch out before her, crossed at the ankle. She smiles, her dark brown eyes aglow with satisfaction. “I just had my last meeting with a client for a case that went my way,” she says. “We got what we wanted for child support.”

“You superhero,” Cor says. “Congratulations.” 

“Thank you. It’s good to know my client won’t have to settle for less than what’s fair. I have another divorce case coming up, but it’s good to have something off my plate. And your day?”

Cor shrugs. “Just another Tuesday.” It draws a bright laugh from Cam that puts the heart in Corona’s chest on wings.

“Gideon would agree.”

“How are you two?” Corona asks, curious despite the twinge in her heart.

“Good, good,” Cam says, seemingly oblivious to Corona’s plight. “Nothing much new. Gideon continues to ask for a dog and I keep telling her what a terrible idea it would be. We’re two young professionals who absolutely do not have the time for a dog, but the banter is nice.”

Corona bets. The domesticity of it all sounds very nice. Cam stretches from across the couch and lets out a soft sigh when something cracks in her spine. It’s that dancer’s grace coming into play again. Corona can only sit there and admire all the lovely angles Cam’s limbs arrange themselves in. 

“I could help,” she finds herself saying, and then tacks on hastily, “if you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t want to seem a demanding host,” Cam says, but she’s already pushing herself off of her end of the couch.

“You aren’t demanding, I offered.” Cor lets Cam find a place to sit between her thighs and Cor stretches her wrists, wiggling her fingers before she sets them on Cam’s shoulders. They’re certainly not as tight as the more difficult weeks but Cor’s sure there are knots regardless. It’s just what makes Cam Cam.

“Any spot in particular?” Corona asks.

Cam shakes her head and Cor feels it in her palms. She starts an absentminded pass over the shoulders, though it’s anything but absentminded. Cam’s skin is warm under Cor’s fingers and Corona’s already picked out a knot she turns her focus on.

“You’re always so good at this,” Cam says, suspiciously like a sigh.

Corona smiles, swallowing it down. Easy, easy. “Thank you.” Her fingers dig a little deeper into Cam's shoulders. The muscles are finally loosening. If she's careful, she can have this for just a little bit longer.

Cam makes a little noise, almost a trill. It comes with a little shimmy as she adjusts herself into a more comfortable position on the couch. The soft top she wears falls off her shoulder, revealing the bra strap underneath.

But this trill sound, while dangerous and thrilling, is not one of The Noises. It's allowed, even if it's a technicality. Corona moves her thumbs in little circles.

This time Cam's moan is full-throated and unmistakable. Definitely one of The Noises. It hurts to remove her hands, but Cor draws her hands away and tucks her thumbs into her terrible tiny for-show pockets.

Cam turns her face to Cor, gives her a half-lidded stare. Half-lidded, but all pleasure. "You didn't have to stop."

Corona can't explain that she had to stop because if she didn't stop, she would run her fingers along the drooping neckline until she could cup her palm over well-worn cotton, fit her mouth over Cam's mouth, and kiss her until she'd shredded the last remnants of their trust and their friendship with her lips and teeth and tongue. She knows better than to bend the rules.

"My wrist started cramping," Corona lies.

“Oh.” Cam’s eyebrows furrow in concern and Corona wants so badly to reach out and smooth them back out again. “I’m sorry.”

Corona forces out a smile. “It’s fine, I should have known. Long day at the office.” She hates lying to her friend, and hopes Cam leaves it at that.

“No, no, here, let me...” Cam pulls Cor’s arm around her body, Cor’s hand resting in front of them in Cam’s lap. She turns it to point the palm skyward and she massages her thumbs into the base of Corona’s wrist where Cor’s pulse hammers.

Cor takes a deep breath in. “You don’t have to,” she protests weakly. It’s a facsimile of the hug she so desperately wants, but cannot have. Not if she’s going to preserve The Rules. It will have to be enough.

“Shhh,” Cam says and leans back into Corona’s chest, falling into comfortable silence. 

Corona wills herself to breathe again, to calm her heart, to not think about how easy it would be to bend her neck no more than four inches and brush her lips over the back of Cam’s nape. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the movie.

* * *

“She’s brought another one of her hookups back,” Harrow says from outside the kitchen window of the middle house. She turns over her shoulder to look at Corona, waiting for a response. Corona had come at her text message and now sits at one of the picnic tables, rubbing at her thumbnail.

“Another?” Corona asks. Oh, Corona doesn’t know, does she. Sweet, sweet Corona.

“It’s certainly not Gideon; Gideon doesn’t bring people back.” Harrow beckons, turning Corona’s attention to the windows, and like an insect flying towards a pitcher plant, Corona comes by her side to learn.

“How do you know?” she asks, naïve.

Harrow takes out the notepad from one of the many pockets in her vest. She can feel Corona assess the pocket situation and Harrow feels a hint of pride in her organisation. Flipping the book open, she points at a chart drawn in messily scrawled ink. “I’ve been tracking the pattern. Lights in the kitchen are off,” she finds the column, then drags her finger along it to tap at an intersection with a row. “And Cam’s bedroom lights are on.”

“How about that one? That light is on.” Cor points to another light from a smaller window to the back of the house.

Harrow shakes her head. “That’s Gideon’s bathroom. She always leaves the bathroom light on and the door cracked when she sleeps.”

Corona opts to not ask why she knows Gideon keeps the door somewhat open and Harrow is glad for it. “Why leave it on?”

Harrow taps the paper, contemplating her options. She doesn’t know exactly what happened to Gideon when she was in the foster system, but she can’t imagine it was much better than her own experiences. She applies mystery to her voice in spades. “I have never dared to ask.”

Corona recoils and shoves at Harrow’s shoulder. “You are a creepy little gremlin.”

Harrow shrugs and folds the notebook shut. “I can go.”

“No, don’t you dare,” Cor says immediately. “Give me that.”

The notebook disappears into one of the many pockets. They stare at each other. 

“Why Gideon?” Corona asks, in an attempt to break the tension.

Harrow snorts. “Don’t overstay your welcome, Tridentarius.”

Corona puts her hands up in surrender, then goes back to rubbing at her nail. There’s practically no polish on it anymore. “Fine.”

They fall back into silence and Harrow lets the watch on her wrist tick for a count of thirty. “Why Cam?”

Cor looks up and huffs, amused. “She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s hot...” Corona shrugs. “She’s Cam.”

“Is she all of those things enough to want to disrupt whatever she and Gideon are doing?”

Corona lifts her eyes to the window. Harrow knows without looking that her eyes are fixed on the light in Cam’s room. She doesn’t give an answer. Some answers shouldn’t be given aloud.

Harrow nods. “So what’s the plan?”

“Hm?”

“To break them apart.”

Corona shrugs. “I don’t know. Seduce Gideon, I guess.” Harrow’s poker face must slip at that, because Cor goes on. “You’re welcome to try first.”

Harrow chokes. “I can’t-- there is no possible way that’s going to work.”

Corona slants a narrow glance back at her. “If you won’t, I will. Cam’s entirely too chivalrous to act even if I come on to her, but Gideon reacts to the Breasts. It’s not _personal_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s true, Gideon would have no qualms with filling her hands with Corona’s ample chest. Harrow’s jaw clenches briefly before she lets it go. “And after that?”

Corona’s eyes linger on the lights for a minute more before she breathes in deep and looks back to Harrow. “Whatever makes Cam happy.”

“You think you could do that for her?” Harrow asks as gently as she can. 

Corona smiles ruefully, tipping her chin down. “I don’t know. I just want her to be happy. Maybe she’s happy already.”

Harrow sits on this, contemplates what she’s seen, what she knows. The silence between them grows and she lets it, carefully selecting her words. “Well,” she says finally, “tell me if you really think Cam’s happy tomorrow.”

Corona gets up from her seat and Harrow walks with her off the property.

“Hey, Harrow?” Corona says when she’s halfway across the lawn. “Thanks.”

Harrow nods and goes back inside, closing the door behind her. She goes to the front window and stands there until Corona enters her own home, the door closing. She casts a glance up towards the middle house and then heads upstairs herself.


	17. Meatball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Total number of chapters went up. Oops. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

**4:53** : _Hey, you said you wanted a dog, right?_

This is _not_ the text Gideon is expecting from Cam on an otherwise sleepy Friday at work. Her last patient cancelled their appointment so she’s just doing paperwork until Cam comes to pick her up to go home. She types out a hasty reply.

 **5:01** : _Yeah, why? Are you getting us a dog?_

 **5:02** : _How do you feel about fostering?_

Gideon types out half an answer before giving up and calling Cam’s number. Cam picks up on the second ring.

“If you’re kidding about the dog, I will change the locks on the house,” Gideon says immediately.

“Hello to you too,” Cam says, “and no, I’m not kidding. Remember the divorce case I’m handling? Neither of them can have the dog but they want it to go to a good home. Long story short, I’m at the SPCA.”

Gideon saves her files and tosses her laptop in her bag, locking up the room. “I’m on my way.”

“You’re going to bike here?”

Gideon skips the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time down to the storage lockers where her bike is stowed away. “Uh, _yeah_ , Cam. Hang on.” She pulls the phone away from her ear to yank her helmet over her head. “Alright, I’ll see you in fifteen.”

“Bike safe, Nav,” Cam says, voice sounding terribly fond. 

Gideon hangs up and pockets her phone, pushing the bike out to the street, swinging her leg over it, and merging into traffic. She pedals fast, whipping through the streets as quickly as her wheels will take her. It crosses her mind only when she pulls up to the adoption center that working up a sweat means she’s in gross clothes when she meets the dog. The dog probably won’t mind, but Gideon does; she wants to be at her best. No matter. She’s here now. She puts her bike on the rack of Cam’s car and blows through the doors.

“Cam, where-- oh hi!” There’s a dog sitting at Cam’s feet and Gideon crouches down to meet it. The dog is short-haired with floppy ears and a big grin, tongue lolling out.

“His name is Meatball,” Cam says. She looks down from the reception desk, where she’s flipping through a stack of papers. Absently, she reaches down and scratches Meatball’s head. “He’s a pitbull mix, apparently, 3 years old, and enjoys playing with frisbees.”

“Oh, _hello_ , Meatball!” Gideon says and holds out a hand. Meatball takes a minute to sniff and opens his mouth back up, panting. Gideon pets his shoulder. “Hey, are _you_ the one we’re bringing home?”

Meatball’s tail thumps quickly and loudly against the floor.

“Gideon, can you read over this?” Cam pushes a stapled handful of papers towards her. 

Gideon grabs the sheaf off the counter and sits down beside Meatball to read, thoroughly distracted by the dog at her side. Meatball sticks his head over the papers and Gideon pulls the papers away before any doggy drool gets on it. “Okay, okay.” She sets them aside and gives Meatball a playful scratching.

“You’re not reading, are you?” Cam teases.

“I have you to go over all the fine-print,” Gideon teases back. Meatball pants directly into her face and it’s only a tiny bit gross. 

Cam scrawls what is probably her signature on the adoption papers and the staff exchanges words with her. Gideon pays them no mind. Meatball’s tail starts thumping again when she gives the spot behind his ears a scratch and Gideon is fully preoccupied by it.

“I’ve always wanted a dog, you know,” Gideon whispers to Meatball. “We’re going to spoil you _rotten_.”

Cam comes over with a leash and an armful of supplies. “Ready to take Meatball home?”

“Are you ready, boy?” Gideon asks excitedly, and Meatball grins wider. “Let’s go home!”

* * *

There’s a knock on the back door just before dinnertime. Gideon turns the burner to low and opens the door.

“Here,” says Harrow, thrusting an egg carton into Gideon’s hands, shoving at them until she takes it. “I didn’t want to ring your obnoxious doorbell.”

“Are these from the chickens?” Gideon asks, flipping open the lid. It’s full of brown eggs. There’s a weird thumping that might be her heart, a scraping sound that might be her failed attempts to come up with something intelligent to say.

“Obviously,” says Harrow. “We don’t eat this many eggs. Give the carton back when you’re done.”

Gideon realizes she’s left the door open for too long when the thumping/scraping noise she’s been hearing identifies itself. A blur of tan fur exits the door like a freight train and lands smack in the center of Harrow’s chest. She falls gracelessly onto the welcome mat.

Gideon puts the eggs hastily on the counter. “Meatball, _sit_. Meatball!” She doesn’t know what she’ll do if her new dog has hurt Harrow.

“Is this beast yours?” asks Harrow from under 60 pounds of furiously wagging affection. She sounds fine, but the back porch isn’t the most comfortable surface to fall on.

“Well, mine and Cam’s.”

Harrow shoves at the dog, and he bounds off her chest, allowing her to sit up on the ground. “With dogs, you need to mean it.” She clears her throat. “Meatball. Sit.”

Astonishingly, he sits.

“How--?” asks Gideon.

“As I said, it’s simple. You just have to mean it.” Harrow brushes fur off her vest and pushes up on her knees to scratch Meatball around the ears. His tail collides with Gideon’s ankle many times in rapid succession. To the dog, she says, “Good boy.”

“Are you okay?” Gideon asks. “I can get the first aid kit. We’re working on his manners. It’s just that, the home he came from, they didn’t have enough time for him, and he just wants the attention.”

“Don’t we all?” asks Harrow, leaning in to more efficiently ruffle Meatball’s ears. He licks her face with enthusiasm.

There’s a small wet spot soaking through the fabric of the left elbow of Harrow’s button-down that’s probably blood from a scrape. Gideon goes for the first aid kit, whether Harrow wants her to or not.

* * *

They delay the second cookout of the month by a week to give Meatball time to adjust to the new home, and by the time it finally rolls around, everyone has heard about the dog. They’re still keeping the barbecue small for the sake of not spooking Meatball, but there are a few important people for him to get to know.

The cul-de-sac neighbours have already briefly met Meatball, all to varying degrees of success. However, Magnus and Abigail have not yet had the honour, nor have the two teenagers standing behind them when Gideon opens the door to the sound of the Pink Panther theme.

“Hey, it’s good to see you.” Gideon pulls first Magnus, then Abigail into a warm hug. Behind them slouch a pair of heavily pierced-and-eyelinered teenagers: one skinny and the other angular with baby muscles. Gideon can’t find a single feature they share, but they stand with their elbows barely touching, as if they’re so afraid to be separated they can’t openly show each other affection.

“Gideon, meet Isaac and Jeannemary, our current foster kids. Isaac and Jeannemary, this is Gideon, who was our foster kid before you two,” Magnus says when Abigail has pulled away.

Gideon grins. “Hey, it’s good to meet--”

Meatball barks loudly and Gideon hears the sound of his nails on the hardwood floor. She turns around and kneels down just in time for Meatball to round the corner and run into her arms. “Oh hello there, you silly dog.” She gives him a scratch around the neck before standing up and attempting to inject the same authority into her voice Harrow had used. “Sit.”

Meatball sits and cocks his head at the newcomers, tail thumping fast and hard. He’s wearing the red paisley bandana that Gideon tied around his neck that morning, twin to the one tied around her own forehead. She fiddles with it, trying not to regret the effort she’d put in to make a good impression. “Everybody, this is Meatball the dog. Meatball, these are my foster parents and their foster kids. Be nice to them.”

“Why do they match?” Isaac-- the skinny one-- hisses to his compatriot. At the appearance of the dog, both teens relax.

“Never mind the bandanas, look at the muscles!” Jeannemary says oh so very faintly.

“You can play with him if you’d like,” Gideon offers, charitably ignoring the byplay. “He’s good at catch and there’s a box of tennis balls in the back. Just make sure you don’t bring him too close to the chickens or Iago.”

“Iago?”

“The neighbour’s goat.” 

Magnus looks on in a fond mix of confusion and exasperation, which makes Gideon laugh. “Welcome to my house.”

* * *

Three hours later, the barbecue is in full swing. To everyone’s delight, Isaac and Jeannemary have spent the last 45 minutes playing fetch with Meatball, who is showing no signs of slowing down. He’s torn through a tennis ball and is into a second. Gideon is glad she got the extra pack.

Harrow has let the chickens free-range in the fenced combined yard, so they can receive pets and praise from the assembled guests. So far, Meatball has handled that with an astonishing level of grace. He snapped at Pelleamena exactly once, Harrow scolded him, and he’s left all the birds completely alone ever since. Instead, he’s sucking up to the barbecue guests, who occasionally drop chunks of cheeseburger. Gideon can’t blame him: he’s gotten more scratchies than he knows what to do with, and she gets to sit back with Magnus and Abigail and enjoy their company while they watch the kids and the dog compete to see whose body can hold the most pure joy.

“They’re good kids,” says Gideon, as Jeannemary throws the ball in a high arc. Meatball chases under it and leaps to snatch it out of the air. He misses and has to run it down in the grass

“You were a good kid, too,” says Magnus, as Meatball weaves through everyone’s legs and returns, triumphant, to deposit the slobber-drenched tennis ball at Isaac’s feet.

Isaac, laughing, lobs the tennis ball through the air. His aim is worse than athletic Jeannemary’s; his attempt to get distance results in a throw that impacts the side of the goat, who’s browsing in the bushes and casting baleful looks at the assemblage. Iago bleats.

Meatball is already running. “Excuse me,” says Gideon, and takes off after him.

By the time they’re both across the lawn, Iago has investigated the tennis ball and decided that he is going to cope with the intrusion by chewing the shit out of it. Meatball approaches with his head cocked. Iago bleats again and turns away. Tail low but still wagging, Meatball follows the ball.

“Is he trying to make friends?” asks Corona, who has arrived at Gideon’s side.

“I think so.” Gideon watches skeptically as Meatball makes a lunge for the ball. Taking advantage of the dog’s preoccupation with the dead tennis ball, Iago bites his tail.

Without letting go of the tennis ball, Meatball growls at Iago, and then he takes off at a run. The goat follows in hot pursuit. Gone is the polite, pedestrian pace from earlier: the dog and the goat hit the crowd like cannonballs, and the guests scatter to make way for the animals. By the time Gideon has managed to flag down Meatball’s attention with a new tennis ball and Coronabeth has wrestled Iago into his harness, the animals have knocked over a bowl of Gideon's tortilla chips and startled Ianthe so badly she dropped her drink, plastic cup and all, into the pool. The tennis ball lies in shreds twenty feet from the grill.

Cam brings Corona Iago’s leash. “That could have gone better,” she says, in the understatement of the barbecue.

“I think we should probably make sure at least one of them is on leash at all times,” says Gideon. “Meatball doesn’t mind his leash, except when there are all these people.” To the dog, she adds: “Isn’t that right, boy?”

“Iago can probably use the separation from the people,” says Corona, tying his leash to the railing of the Tridentarius porch. The goat experiments with pulling against it, and then philosophically accepts his fate and turns his attention to eating the lilac bushes. “I’ll handle the leash situation. I’m sorry, Gideon; I never thought he’d attack your dog.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Gideon. “We were all taken by surprise.”

* * *

“This really isn’t necessary,” says Gideon two days later, eyeing the bedazzled harness Cor has just buckled over Meatball’s shoulders.

“Nonsense,” says Corona. “Look how handsome you are, Meatball!” She runs her hand down the dog’s back, over the jewels. “I got Iago one that matches.”

Meatball wags his tail with enthusiasm. Gideon is pretty sure he’s mostly excited about the attention, but Coronabeth is radiant with giving. There’s no way she’s going to argue.

* * *

Cam goes alone to do the grocery shopping for the week because Gideon needs to get home early to walk the dog. The text message Cam sends her isn’t encouraging. _Hey Gideon, I’m going to need your help unloading._

She goes outside. “Hey, Cam, what’s up?”

“It’s the tennis balls. They’re just so bulky.”

Gideon peers into the trunk. As advertised, there’s an enormous box full of tennis balls. “How many of them are there?”

“I got them used,” says Cam. “There should be about five hundred in that box. Do you think it’s enough?”

Gideon groans. “This is like the cinnamon all over again.” She had forgotten to specify a quantity, and Cam had come home with a _full pound_ from the bulk section of the local co-op. At Gideon’s aghast expression, she had then offered to go back for more.

“We got through the cinnamon!” Cam protests.

“Cam, ground cinnamon only lasts for a year. I got through half of it and put the rest in the compost.” Gideon grinds the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. Cam is so smart, so it always takes her by surprise when she doesn’t know something.

“At least tennis balls won't go bad?” Cam offers. “I’m pretty sure they’re non-perishable.”

Gideon thinks of the half-dozen tennis ball corpses currently in the trash. “He does go through them,” she allows. And they have plenty of storage space in the basement. Maybe 500 tennis balls is the right quantity to buy them in for their dog. Weirder things have happened on the cul-de-sac.


	18. Iago's Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our friends skipping smut, please check the end notes.
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

“Cam?”

Cam looks up from her romance novel. Gideon’s coming down the stairs with physical paper plans of some sort, fresh from the printer. “What’s up?”

Gideon sits down on a couch across from Cam and shows her the papers. It’s filled with drawings of filigrees and detailing on a chicken coop labelled with numbers and letters.

“Which design do you think the chickens will like?”

Cam raises an eyebrow. “I don't know, Gideon, I'm not a chicken, I'm not entirely sure what they'd like.” 

Gideon waves the sheaf of papers in front of Cam’s face. “Okay but like, _imagine_ yourself as a chicken. What do you think you’d like?”

“You seem to care an awful lot about Harrow's chickens.”

“Yeah, well the chickens are cute and deserve a good home, okay?” Gideon says, a little defensively. “This is a nice home, the chickens would want something nice too.”

Cam nods, silently noting that Gideon has decided to focus on the chickens instead of on Harrow. She doesn’t think the chickens will mind much one way or the other, but it’s nice that Gideon’s thinking about it anyways.

“I like 6F.”

Gideon pulls a face. “Really? You don’t think they’d like something from column B?”

Column B is entirely full of skull motifs. Cam forbears from comment.

Looking over the designs, Gideon shakes her head and then stands up again. “Maybe I should poll the chickens,” she says, making a beeline for the back door.

“Gideon, they are _chickens_ ,” Cam says, but Gideon is already gone.

* * *

It’s a lovely sunny afternoon but Gideon isn’t under the sun’s rays to enjoy it. Instead, she’s in the shed with a mostly-finished coop. She’s spent the last little while planning, cutting, sanding, and constructing. It’s a lovely fenced contraption with wheels and a shelter with automatic food and water dispensing. She personally thinks it’s a fantastic build.

Despite this being her brainchild, today she’s the spectator. Perched on a barstool, she and Harrow have switched spots and it’s Gideon who hovers over Harrow’s shoulder.

“You have so little faith in me, Griddle,” Harrow mutters. She’s hunched over a tiny circuit board with a soldering iron in her hand, squinting at the wires.

Gideon opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by someone clearing their throat at the door. She turns her head. 

“Good afternoon,” Corona says.

Gideon grins and pushes off the chair to greet Corona with a hug. Harrow harrumphs when her elbow is jostled by the movement. “Hey! How are you doing?”

Corona gives a squeeze in the hug. “Not bad, how are you?” She releases the hold and waves to Harrow. Harrow nods in acknowledgement and returns to the work at hand. “Isn’t that... your project, Gideon?”

Gideon smiles ruefully. “It’s for Harrow’s chickens. She wants the best for her bird babies and doesn’t think I can solder the wires for the motor on right.”

“It’s because you can’t, Nav,” Harrow says, sitting up again. “These things take _precision_.”

“Whatever you say, O lady of eternal gloom,” Gideon says, sticking her tongue out at Harrow’s back.

Harrow just huffs in response. Cor laughs, and Gideon suddenly feels terribly fond of what they have together. Almost two years ago, she never would have imagined working together with Harrow on a project, let alone bantering so easily with the hot neighbor next door. It’s nice. It’s all very nice.

“Hey, if Harrow’s busying herself with your project, maybe you can help me with something else?” Cor asks. 

Gideon perks up immediately, rubbing her palms together. “What can I do for you?”

Corona leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms under her breasts. Gideon chivalrously makes a point of attempting not to look. “It’s Iago. With the fences down, he’s wandering his way across the shared backyards. I’m just worried he’s not getting the shade and water he needs when he’s at Harrow’s place.”

“Isn’t he Ianthe’s goat?” Gideon asks. And then upon saying it, realises that she already knows the answer and confirmation would just be upsetting. “Right, nevermind, forget I asked. So you want--”

“Ow, shit.” The curse is heartfelt, muttered under Harrow’s breath.

Gideon darts to her side, staying only far enough away that she doesn’t bump the elbow of the arm holding the very hot soldering iron. “Are you all right?”

Harrow snorts. “I just poked myself. I’m afraid the prognosis is that I’ll live and continue to suffer under the reign of your foolhardiness.”

“Tragic,” Gideon deadpans, then she turns to Corona. “Right, you were saying?”

Cor smiles. “I was wondering if it would be feasible to build him a rolling shelter. Just something with shade and water. I was envisioning a doghouse of sorts...” Corona draws it out roughly in the air.

“We could make a lean-to,” Gideon suggests. “Hang on, let me--” She moves to the workbench and clears a spot, tearing off a sheet of paper from a pad. She grabs a nearby pencil and draws out a platform with wheels and a rough three-walled building on it. It’s not her finest work, but it will do. “We could, uh--”

Corona leans over the table across from her and licks her lips in concentration. It puts the breasts right at perfect eye level and Gideon struggles.

“We should, ah, put a trough for water here.” Gideon draws in a little rectangle. “You’d have to fill it by hand unless you want to get a little fancy. Are you planning on getting fancy? Does this need a motor as well?”

Cor shakes her head. “No, as long as it’s light enough, I can just push it.” She flexes gratuitously.

“That’s true, your work in the gym is paying off,” Gideon says, her voice a little strangled, and Cor beams. Gideon swallows.

"Thank you. Do you think Iago will like it?"

Given enough alfalfa cubes, Iago could come to love anything. That's not what Corona is asking. "Who wouldn't love a gift from Coronabeth Tridentarius?"

Corona’s smile is absolutely brilliant. “Sweet talker.” She leans forward to squeeze Gideon’s shoulder. “I have to go. It’s Monday and I have dinner with Ianthe, but let me know how I can help?”

Gideon nods and watches Corona leave without a word. She certainly does not think about Corona’s backside as she goes.

“You’re a disaster, Nav. An absolute disaster,” Harrow says from the table. 

Gideon slants a glance over at Harrow. She’s still furiously soldering, shoulders hunched so that they form a wall between her and the rest of the world. Gideon’s not going to be able to get her attention, even if she stays. In a choice between Harrow’s cold shoulder and the warm memory of Coronabeth’s cleavage, there’s no contest. She sighs dreamily. “I think I’m going to go have a lie-down.”

“As long as it’s not on the work table.”

* * *

A few weeks later, Gideon knocks on Corona’s sliding door. The plants in Corona’s raised beds have been doing well ever since they installed the fence to keep out Iago and the chickens. 

“Hey, I brought over the shelter,” she says when Corona slides the door open with a grin. “Want to try it out?”

Corona beams. “Hang on.” She disappears and returns with a bag of goat treats. “Okay, let’s go. Iago!” It takes a little while, but Iago eventually wanders up to them, bleating loudly. “Hey buddy,” Corona coos and pats Iago’s head, leading him towards the shelter.

Iago gives the contraption a sniff and begins to walk away.

“Oh no, Iago! Come here!” Corona holds out a treat and tries to tempt him back.

Gideon squeezes Corona’s shoulder. “I’m going to go fill the trough.”

Eventually, with a lot of cajoling and treats, Iago makes his way into the shelter. He inspects the bedding in the shelter with disdain, and then props his feet up on the fence and begins to clear the low-hanging branches from the nearby trees. 

“Better he stands there than on my shoulders,” Corona says, rubbing them ruefully. She gets up from her knees and smiles at Gideon, laying a hand on Gideon’s arm. “Thank you, Gideon, really.”

Gideon shrugs. “No big deal. I’m just glad I could help.”

“How will I ever thank you?” Corona says, voice dropped half an octave lower, pushing rasp into the words. She tugs the hem of her shirt down with one hand and moves the other to rest on the side of Gideon’s neck.

Gideon laughs a little nervously. “That’s laying it on a bit thick. Not that I’m not into it, of course, but-- seriously?”

Corona cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. “Have you _seen_ your biceps?”

“Have _you_ seen your tits?” Gideon counters. She should get points for not looking down at Corona’s breasts while she says it, but Corona’s leaning in close. Gideon licks her lips surreptitiously.

“I have.” Cor smiles. It’s sharp, dangerous-- she wields her red lip dye like a knife, and Gideon feels the pull from her navel all the way down to her hamstrings. Oh God, they’re talking about Corona’s breasts. Gideon cannot handle this.

“The question is,” Cor goes on, voice dropping the rest of the way into a throaty purr, “would you like to?”

And then again, maybe she can. Gideon clenches her hands into fists, stretches them out, and then lays them on Corona’s hips, stepping closer. "Your tits are a gift, and who wouldn't love a gift from Coronabeth Tridentarius?"

Those crimson lips slant a little more dangerously. “Come inside with me?”

“Ianthe won’t mind?”

“Ianthe isn’t here. She’ll never know.”

So she’s going to be Corona’s secret fuck. Gideon pretends to consider it, thinks about the fragile truce she and Harrow have built alongside a chicken coop, but she’s already toeing off her sneakers. She's not kidding anyone. It's amazingly hot, out-of-her-league Coronabeth Tridentarius. Of course she says yes.

* * *

"All the cabinets holding up?" Gideon asks once the door closes behind her, and Corona realizes that she's nervous. She’d thought the hard part would be finding an opening to get Gideon alone-- now she realizes that she has to make sure Gideon doesn’t flee before the end of the encounter. Not that it’s a hardship when she’s so fond of Gideon, when she’s had more than a few errant thoughts about her friend when she’s alone in bed at night.

"You didn't come here to ask me about my cabinets," says Corona, unbuttoning her blouse. "Are you going to touch me or not?"

"I was promised breasts," says Gideon, a little shakily, but she's putting her hands on Corona's waist under the parted sides of her blouse anyway. Her hands are rough, work-worn, and surprisingly tentative as they trace the dramatic curve from the band of Corona's bra, down past her waist, to the flare of her hips under her jeans. She hooks her thumbs through Corona's belt loops and pushes, lightly, a request and not a demand.

"Don't worry, we'll get there." Corona lets her back them up to the edge of the countertop-- perches the shelf of her ass on the surface-- and then Gideon tips her face up to kiss Corona, and the nerves seem to go once their lips meet.

Gideon kisses soft and just a little sloppy, like enthusiasm has overtaken her technique. She frames Cor's face in her hands, even as Corona reaches behind her back to unhook her bra and pull it away to drop on the kitchen floor. Corona loves it; it’s so _earnest_ , so very much like the Gideon she’s grown to care for at a dozen barbecues, even more D&D sessions, at holidays and movie nights and hockey practices. It’s nothing like what she feels for Cam, but it’s whole and it’s real and maybe in another world it would be _enough_ , like Cor could come home from work and get counter kisses like these and-- well, it's a lovely image, but Gideon is fucking Cam, and with any amount of luck, she'll fuck Cor, and if Corona thinks too much about it she'll lose the plot entirely.

She breaks the kiss. "Those aren't my breasts, Gideon," she says.

Gideon backs up a step. Not what Corona had in mind, but it gives her the space to slide off the rest of her clothes, rolling through her hips the way she's learned showcases her curves to best advantage.

"Corona," Gideon says seriously. "You know I'm not really here for the breasts, right?"

Corona props her hip up on the counter again to cover up the icy dagger of fear. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, the breasts are great," Gideon adds hastily, and Corona is going to have to up her game, because Gideon shouldn't be able to read her that easily. "But I like _you_ , and I think this could be fun. You don't owe me anything."

Corona cannot, cannot, cannot process any of that, not if she wants this to stay the light-hearted encounter that she needs. "Of course I don't," she says lightly. "But you promised to touch me. Going to make good on that?"

Gideon eyes her warily. "Only if you want me to."

Tipping her head back to showcase the line of her throat in invitation, Corona laughs, keeping the sound playful, even though she’s shaken to her core. “I want you to touch me, Gideon Nav,” she says. “Take off your clothes.”

She feels calmer when Gideon scrambles, pulling at her tank top, unzipping her jeans, and then the tension rises again when she realizes-- “Are you _folding_ them?”

“I always fold them,” says Gideon. “Is that a problem?”

“Only if you don’t come here and touch me,” says Corona. 

Gideon lays aside the tidy pile of her clothes and moves in, and Corona lets herself watch with half-lidded eyes, appraising openly, and she can see the moment Gideon realizes she’s watching, because she flexes. Long lean expanses of muscles bunch under brown skin, and she gives Corona a small smile, her _shy_ smile, the one that usually only comes out around Harrowhark. That’s terrifying.

“I’m waiting, Nav,” says Corona, and the terrifying smile broadens into something much easier to handle, full of open invitation, and then Gideon puts her warm body against hers in the warm summer kitchen, crowding her up against the cabinets so the bottom edges press against her shoulder blades.

"Here?" asks Gideon-- and why not here? Other than the open window, currently letting in the sun. They're barely a week from the solstice.

"One second." Corona leans over, grabs the pull cord by the very tips of her fingers, and shuts the blinds. The light in the kitchen lights dims, yellow glow sneaking in around the edges of the blinds, modern fixtures going from bright to intimate. “Show me what you’ve got.”

They say that at hockey practice, sometimes, when they’re spurring each other on. It works, because Gideon starts touching her, and Corona runs her hands down Gideon’s muscled back. Even with the softness around Gideon’s hips and thighs and chest, Corona’s never had a partner this _ripped_ before, and it’s a delightful experience. She can’t stop tracing the ridges, trapezius to deltoids and down Gideon’s spine, hungry for this body that somehow she’s allowed to savor. She’s astonished to find out that she wants Gideon like this again, because even now, even when they’ve barely done anything but kiss naked in Cor’s kitchen, she can wrap her legs around Gideon’s waist and imagine a future that’s almost as good as the one she’s imagined with Cam. She’d once imagined she could be the spice in the marriage she’d imagined between Gideon and Cam, and that idea resurfaces. She doesn’t understand why Gideon is here with her, not when Gideon could be with Cam. And if she could be there with both of them--

Except she _knows_ them now, and that knowledge is what’s informing the way Gideon’s hands are so gentle on her ribs, scraping teeth light and careful over Corona’s collarbone, and she’s filled to the brim with emotions-- guilt and love-- at the way Gideon waits for her hips to move before she lets Corona’s breasts fill her big palms and finds her nipples.

Cor doesn’t bother to muffle her noises. She suspects Gideon will love them; learns she’s more than right when she moans and Gideon huffs out an amazed breath over her wet nipple.

She’s ready for more when Gideon drops to her knees between Corona’s thighs, running hands over the tender spots just above her knees, learning the curves of her hips and worshiping the swell of her belly. Oh, this is good, this is very good, this is exactly what Corona likes. She’s over her first peak and heading toward the second when she realizes that the arch of her spine is nearly identical to the one Cam’s had made when she’d seen Gideon and Cam in their kitchen. Cam has also experienced that glorious thing Gideon’s doing with her tongue, has also pulled Gideon’s hair to make her moan. 

Gideon pulls back, and Corona whimpers at the loss. “Are you okay?” Gideon asks.

“The cabinets are digging into my back,” Corona says. It’s not entirely a lie. She’d be willing to ignore it, though, except-- “Come upstairs to my bed?”

It’s almost worth it to see Gideon rise up to her feet in a smooth movement, her strength obvious in every line of her body. “Lead the way,” Gideon says, in a way that makes it abundantly clear that she’s going to enjoy every second of going up the stairs behind Corona. Cor can work with that, can add a little extra roll to her hips as she leads the way to her bedroom. 

When they get there, Gideon closes the door behind her, sees the bed, and takes a sharp breath. That’s right, Corona recalls dimly, she’s never had any of their neighbors but Cam in her room before. They’ve all been in Gideon’s bedroom, and Cam has long since been sending Corona and Harrow up to her room to retrieve loungewear and books. Cor has even penetrated the depths of Harrow’s inner sanctum because Harrow had wanted to show her some data. But she’s only ever returned the favor for Cam. (Ianthe is a formidable watchdog, she supposes. Much more ferocious than Meatball.)

“That’s an amazing bed,” Gideon breathes, and then-- “ _You’re_ amazing.”

“Prove it,” says Corona, expecting Gideon to lunge. 

Instead, Gideon gives her another terrifying smile-- this one intimate and conspiratorial, the one Corona’s seen around the D&D table when Gideon’s about to come up with something truly devious-- takes her hand, and leads her to her own bed, pulling back the duvet and helping her arrange herself comfortably on her sheets before joining her.

She doesn’t know why she didn’t expect courtesy from Gideon, why she’d been expecting a quick, wild fuck where neither of them would have to think about anything except the shortest path to the next orgasm. Now that she sees Gideon in action, she can barely imagine her the other way. This is _Gideon_ , who puts her own body on the line first to advance the interests of the team, _Gideon_ , who shares the bounty of her harvest and always makes sure her friends are fed, _Gideon_ , who builds chicken coops and goat shelters and D&D tables, installs raised beds and fences, whose hands have changed their backyards from a disused, overgrown wasteland to a space for their little community over the course of two scant years. 

Something in Corona’s chest cracks, because she can’t do this with Gideon when it means nothing, and neither can she stop. And she still wants Cam more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut begins at "All the cabinets holding up?" 
> 
> It ends at "Something in Corona’s chest cracks, because she can’t do this with Gideon when it means nothing, and neither can she stop. And she still wants Cam more."
> 
> Incidentally, that's the end of the chapter.


	19. A Summer of Squirrely Things

Cam wakes up moments before her fitness band vibrates on her wrist as it always does come six, and she groggily taps twice to turn it off. Sunlight filters past the bottoms of blackout curtains hanging over Palamedes’s windows as she blinks sleep from her eyes. 

As much as it stings, she has to admit that they’ve finally found their stride. She comes over once a month, takes him to the point of exhaustion, spends the night. They don’t pretend they have feelings for one another beyond friendship, she gets to draw the reactions from him that no one else sees, and he’s calmer around the edges.

She stretches, leaving his lanky form supine in the bed behind her. He’s getting better sleep now. She adjusts his alarm so that he’ll wake up at nine-- he doesn’t have to be at work for an hour after that.

On the other hand, she needs to be at work at 7:30. She has an hour and a half to make this happen, and, before she does anything else, she needs coffee. Wrapping herself in the robe she keeps at Palamedes’s place for exactly this kind of situation, she stumbles down the stairs and is surprised and gratified to find the pot half-full of coffee. She grabs a mug from the only cabinet with actual tableware, and gets a hand on the pot handle.

“Good morning.” The sepulchral voice is out of place in the warm July morning.

Cam startles, setting down the coffee pot before she can spill it all over herself. She turns her head towards the voice and sees Harrow perched in the nook, a reference volume in one hand and coffee in the other.

“Ah, good morning.” She picks the pot back up and pours herself a mug. Lifting it to her nose, she breathes in and then pads over to the fridge to add a splash of cream. “You’re up early.”

Harrow hmphs and Cam hears her flip a page. “You assume I slept at all.”

Cam opens the carton of cream and stirs it in, watching the white swirl into and combine with the blackness. She puts the cream back and gives Harrow a skeptical once-over. Her vest is unwrinkled; her trousers neatly pressed. If she hasn’t slept, she has at least changed her clothes recently. “Did you?”

Harrow pauses, and then, in tones of one from whom an admission has been wrung: “Yes, I slept.” She turns a page, makes a note, and then snaps the volume shut and clarifies. “I fell asleep at 6:00 PM yesterday after an all-nighter and woke up an hour and a half ago.”

Cam shuts the fridge door and watches Harrow take a sip of her coffee. “Well done,” she says, faintly amused. Harrow hums in response and Cam takes her coffee to the nook, sitting across from Harrow. Her hands wrap around the warm mug and she hunches over the steam rising from the lip. They sit in silence draped over their shoulders like a warm blanket, the rest of the world waking up with the sun.

“How is Gideon?” Harrow asks, breaking their sacred quiet.

Cam looks up, blinking away drowsiness. “She’s good,” she says, and raises the mug to her lips. She can feel the hot coffee slide down her throat and warm her chest. She sighs appreciatively. 

“Keeping busy now that hockey season is over?” asks Harrow. Cam doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Hockey season has been over for months.

“Lately, we’ve started working out on Fridays.” Cam lifts the mug to her lips again, closing her eyes and enjoying the aroma.

“I didn’t realize you worked out on Fridays,” Harrow says.

If Harrow wants to join them in the gym on Fridays, Cam is all for it. She should invite Cor, too, now that she thinks of it. “If you want to join us, we’re done with the syllabus.”

“Done with the syllabus?” Harrow asks, measured.

“It went well,” says Cam, considering the merits of trying to scrounge up breakfast in the Sextus-Nonagesimus kitchen. Probably better to stop somewhere on the way to work. “Gideon’s a quick study.”

“I didn’t realize Gideon studied anything.”

“We’re friends, and she just needed a confidence boost--” Cam looks up, and the face that looks back is sufficiently intrigued that she catches herself before more words can spill unbidden from her lips. Shit. She shouldn’t be saying this much, especially not to Harrow. “Yeah,” she finishes, in a weak attempt to deflect.

Harrow blinks slowly with an unreadable expression and then turns back to her papers. “If you’d like, I can walk Meatball in the afternoons,” she says, shooting Cam a look out the corner of her eye. “Since I get home earlier than the rest of you.”

Cam can’t bring herself to say no. Part of her considers that she may have to go through the trouble of possibly redacting her response once she’s had time for the caffeine to kick in and for herself to collect her thoughts. “I would like that,” she says anyways. “Thank you.”

Harrow lifts the corner of her lips and nods briefly. She turns the page.

Cam leaves the Sextus-Nonagesimus house fifteen minutes later with a stack of empty Tupperware containers in her arms, ready for the day.

* * *

At the next barbecue, Gideon is showing Jeannemary how Meatball likes to wrestle. Isaac is watching from a safe distance away, and Gideon is trying to coax him into participating when Ianthe crosses through the fence gate into the backyard. Of course she’s always invited to the barbecues-- it’s just that they all like it better when she doesn’t come. But this time, she’s also chosen to take them up on their offer of a plus-one.

The plus-one is wearing a crisp button-down, khakis, and entirely too much hair gel. The outfit matches Ianthe’s tailored dress. They look like they’re about to attend a networking event, not a backyard barbecue. Gideon hates him on sight, even before she sees Cor’s spine go rigid.

Out of the corner of her eye, Gideon can see Cam move so that her body is between Cor and her sister. She gives Meatball a belly rub, tells Jeannemary it’s her job to take over entertaining the dog, and goes to play host on offense. “Ianthe! Glad you could make it!”

“It’s always a delight,” says Ianthe, with a matching lack of sincerity. “This is Babs.”

How enlightening. Gideon sticks her hand out. “Gideon Nav.”

The man narrows his eyes, taking in Gideon’s apron and grass-stained jeans with a curl of his lip. “Naberius Tern.” His handshake is annoyingly perfect: firm and dry, and he doesn’t play strength games with the grip. Gideon doesn’t, either, but he tempts her to start.

“Can I get either of you something to eat?”

They accept and exchange glances while Gideon washes her hands off at the spigot she’s installed near the pavilion. She grabs burgers with her tongs, plates them for their guests, and leaves them to apply their own condiments and fixings. The ketchup is homemade and served in mason jars; one is labeled SPICY on masking tape on the jar. Privately, Gideon has marked it down in her head as a failed experiment. She’d thought that skipping the ghost pepper meant that the extra habanero she’d added would be okay. Instead, the end result is way the fuck too hot to really enjoy. No one ever touches the SPICY ketchup more than once; Gideon only puts it out because she can’t quite bring herself to compost it yet. 

Usually, Gideon is usually careful to warn new guests about it. (Some people-- like Isaac and Jeannemary-- try it anyway. Gideon was ready with glasses of milk and tissues for the tears streaming from their eyes. “That was _awesome_ ,” Isaac had proclaimed, once he stopped sputtering. “I’m never doing that again.”)

But, when Naberius ostentatiously applies lip balm before reaching for the SPICY jar, Gideon can’t quite bring herself to say anything. (Ianthe chooses the EXTRA BASIL ketchup, her eyebrows winging up like she’s reluctantly impressed after her first bite. No one can say the Tridentarii don’t have good taste.)

Gideon gives him begrudging credit when he tries to soldier through the second bite before dropping the burger, which lands on the ground with a meaty _squelch_. She dives to rescue the burger from Meatball-- a stolen taste of the SPICY ketchup once upset his stomach for an entire very unpleasant week.

“Fuck, it burns,” Naberius gets out through wet, panting breaths. His eyes are wet with tears and he touches ketchup-covered fingers to wipe them away. “Ah, _fuck_!”

If she’s being fully honest, Gideon doesn’t know what it is about this Naberius guy that has spooked Corona, but Gideon trusts Corona’s judgement. “Hey, I can help, if you’d like?”

Naberius pitches to lean forward, eyes squeezed shut. He drools when he opens his mouth to gasp for breath. “What does it look like? Get me water, you idiot!” he barks.

Gideon was actually going to go get him milk. Operative word here, _was_. She doesn’t mind a laugh at someone’s expense, especially when they made Cor stiffen like that. She would have taken her time getting it, but she’s normally not cruel. Not unless they are an ass to her. So he wants water? Gideon has an idea.

She bends at the knees and grabs around Naberius’s waist, lofting him bodily over her shoulder. He grunts, winded by the action, and she begins to walk towards the Tridentarius house. Naberius shouts in indignation and chokes on spit, coughing into Gideon’s back and beating his fists against her like an angry four year-old. 

“Let-- let me go--” He spits out. “Where are we going? I can’t see--”

Gideon approaches the Tridentarius pool and unceremoniously throws him from her shoulder into the water with a massive splash. “There. Water.”

Naberius surfaces, gasping for air. “You--” he shouts furiously and his head sinks under the waves that crest back. One of his boat shoes floats to the surface. He pushes himself back to the surface, treading water more angrily than Gideon had thought possible. “Fuck you!”

Gideon shrugs. “Sorry, I’m just Corona’s idiot neighbour. And hey.” Gideon motions around her nose. “The water will help you with your snotting problem.”

Naberius wipes at his nose and flings the mucus off his hands in disgust.

“Nav,” says Harrow from behind her. She turns her head. 

To anyone else, the look on Harrow’s face would be a damning condemnation, but Gideon’s known Harrow for long enough to see the slight glint in her eye that reads like amusement.

She lifts her hands in surrender and moves to the side, allowing Harrow to walk in with a glass of cold milk. Across the expanded lawn, she can hear Jeannemary snort in laughter.

“Get out of the pool, Naberius,” Harrow orders. “You look a fool.”

Naberius sputters and paddles to the edge, grunting as he heaves himself out of the pool. His button-down and khakis, no longer crisp, drip onto the concrete pool deck.

Harrow hands him the glass. “Leave this in the sink when you’re done,” she says, and turns heel to leave.

“Wait! How about my shoe?” Naberius points back into the water.

Harrow blinks at the shoe, then looks to him, inscrutable.

“You can dive back in to get it, or you can ask Ianthe to use the pool net.” When it becomes clear Naberius has nothing left to say, Harrow leaves and Gideon follows. She likes it much better when she’s on this side of Harrow’s thinly veiled disdain.

* * *

“Hey,” Gideon says, and Corona looks up from the burgers table to see Gideon sidle up to her.

“Hey,” Corona replies, her voice heavy. “Uh, nice dunk back there.”

Gideon smiles, but it doesn’t have teeth, it doesn’t have the same brilliance it usually holds. “He was being a dick. Hey, what do you think about the lime and sea salt tortilla chips?” She reaches into the appropriately labelled bowl and pops one into her mouth. “It’s a new recipe,” she says through a mouthful of chip.

It’s a thinly veiled distraction, but Corona appreciates it anyways. “It’s good. I like it with the basil ketchup. Is that weird?”

Gideon shakes her head. “It’s a good pairing. Cam likes it in tomato sauce-- as in pasta sauce, not ketchup or salsa-- if that makes you feel any better.”

Corona keeps her face carefully composed under this new knowledge. “Oh? You should teach me how to make it. The tomato sauce, I mean.”

“You know how to cook,” Gideon says, stuffing another chip into her mouth.

“I know how to _bake_ , it’s different,” Corona counters. “And if I’m going to be planting tomatoes, I should know how to cook with them.”

Gideon nods, conceding with a grin. There’s a bit of chip between her incisors. “No, yeah, you’re right. And, hey, I would be delighted to spend time with you.”

Corona can’t quite tell if it's supposed to be innuendo or not, but she smiles back anyway. They’re already spending time alone together, but Corona can understand why Gideon doesn’t want to admit it. It’s just casual sex, nothing more.

* * *

“You don’t have to shadow me, you know,” Corona says quietly when they finally sit by the fire pit. Babs and Ianthe left half an hour after the pool debacle, Meatball tired himself out and decided to take a nap on the grass, and the cookout was more or less seamless after that. Save Corona. Cam’s been at her elbow the whole time, drawn by the slight furrow in Corona’s brow that hasn’t disappeared even hours later. They’re not pressed against each other now, though they usually are at this time of night-- Cam had been sure to give Corona room when they sat.

Corona turns her head to look at Cam. Cam’s heart bottoms out. Fire flickers, reflected in Corona’s violet eyes, revealing a deep aching despair that’s wet around the corners.

“I’m fine,” Corona says, and Cam doesn’t believe it for a second.

Cam holds out an upturned palm and closes her hand over Cor’s when Corona takes it. “Can I ask who he was?”

Corona turns their hands over and she traces Cam’s knuckles with her free hand in silence. 

Cam holds the silence with her, broken only by the quiet crackle of flame from the pit. She keeps her eyes fixed on the profile of Corona’s face, to the shadows that dance at the edge of her jaw and the soft glow of light against the bridge of her nose. 

“Babs is my ex,” Corona finally says. Cam has to tear her eyes away lest she be caught staring. “We were together for two years.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cam finds herself whispering. “That’s... that’s so...”

“Fucked up? Yeah.” Corona turns their hands back over again. “Babs and I met in high school and dated in university. We were very much a prom king and queen kind of couple. I liked him well enough.”

Corona leans into Cam’s shoulder and Cam turns her head to press her lips into Corona’s hair. She feels Corona’s breath hitch by the movement of her shoulders, and then she sinks further into the touch, so Cam doesn’t move. 

Swallowing hard, Corona goes on. “But it was like-- how I like my favorite pair of heels. He was always an accessory, and we dazzled the student body together.” Her shoulders shake. “It was the same for him. We were using each other, but we both knew it. I know this doesn’t make me sound very good.”

“Cor--” says Cam, at a loss for words. As if she hasn’t had semi-anonymous sex with dozens of people, made her own bad decisions in the course of so doing. She can’t say that, though-- this is Corona’s time to talk to her. Instead, she strokes Corona’s hair, fingers catching in the curls. 

“But anyway, it was fine. We had an agreement. I thought we had an agreement. And then I found out he was also sleeping with my sister. Like one day I’d found Ianthe wearing my favorite shoes, and-- and they looked better on her.” Corona’s voice barely cracks, and there’s a warm wet teardrop trickling down Cam’s collarbone. To honor Cor’s self-control, Cam pretends she doesn’t notice. 

“It would have been fine if it was anyone else,” says Corona. “But I trusted Ianthe, and she betrayed me.”

Cam can fill in the holes in this story well enough. Ianthe brought him-- the reminder of all that-- to this picnic that belongs to Corona, in the pavilion that Corona helped build. It makes her want to hit someone. But Corona deserves better than the lawsuit that would inevitably result, so instead of going to find Ianthe, Cam just pulls Cor the rest of the way in, squeezes until their bodies press again. It feels like home.

“I should go back,” Corona says. It sounds like dread, like monsters lurk between their bench and the Tridentarius back porch instead of a single bad-tempered goat, currently confined to the far-back corner of the yard in his shelter.

Cam squeezes their hands. “You can stay the night. We have a spare bedroom,” she offers.

Corona is silent for another minute, considering the offer. Cam cradles Corona’s hand in her own, brushing her thumb over Cor’s knuckles. “Okay,” Cor says finally. 

They untangle themselves from each other and Cam puts out the fire. It’s earlier than they’d usually retire to their beds, but one look at Cor’s eyes says she’s twice as tired.

Cam takes her upstairs and searches her closet to find the purple camisole they use for movie nights. “Hold on, I’ll get a pair of sweats from Gideon. Feel free to use my bathroom.”

“Thank you,” Corona says softly and Cam has to look away from the depths of Corona’s gaze so that she can even make it out the door.

* * *

When she returns, Cor is asleep on her bed, chest rising and falling slowly. She’s changed into the camisole, and her legs are long and arranged over Cam’s duvet, crossed delicately at the ankle in a way that emphasizes the curves. She’s beautiful, and, in sleep, finally relaxed.

Cam smiles to herself and folds up Gideon’s sweatpants, setting them aside. It’s warm enough that she’s probably not cold, but Cam pulls extra sheets out of the closet and covers her up anyway, just to make sure she’s comfortable. A blonde lock of hair moves with Corona’s gentle exhales and Cam moves it gingerly.

Corona doesn’t stir.

“Goodnight, Cor,” Cam whispers, turning off the lights. She makes her way to the guest bedroom for the night.

* * *

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to steal your bed,” says Corona the next morning. She’s rubbing sleep from her eyes, wearing yesterday’s sundress. It’s rumpled now, and Cam wants to smooth the lines over Cor’s curves. 

“Any time,” says Cam absently. She pours Corona a cup of coffee-- cream and sugar, just the way Cor likes it-- and passes it over before she realizes what she’s just said.

Cor takes the mug and breathes in the scent of coffee. Their eyes meet over the rim of the cup. “Thanks.”

* * *

About a week after the Babs incident, Gideon stretches out in the sun in Cor's bed, the sheets shifting under her skin. The covers have long been abandoned, pushed to the end of the bed to stay well out of the way of sprawling bodies and errant limbs. They’ve done this a handful of times now. Corona texts her about the goat and notes that Ianthe isn’t home, Gideon grabs her hammer to preserve the illusion, and leaves the tool with her shoes inside the Tridentarius back door. Even without the spectre of Ianthe looming, it's not quite right. 

There’s nothing wrong with the sex. It’s certainly different than it was with Cam, but it’s no less good. They leave each other warm and satiated, limbs loose and tangled together. Corona is even hotter in real life than in some of Gideon’s guilty fantasies. There’s real affection here, too, just as there had been when she and Cam were having sex, and yet it’s somehow hollow. Heartache shares the bed with them, more palpable every time. It’s coming to a head and it hangs over them in a damning sort of way this afternoon in particular. They can both taste what's coming, like ozone in the air after it rains.

She reaches over and brushes a sweaty curl off of Corona’s forehead. “Cor... this isn't working,” she says, throat tight-- not with tears, but rather a sense of inevitability.

“It's... it's really not, is it?” Cor sits up, moodily pensive. It’s as lovely a look for her as all the others are.

“It’s not you.” Gideon can see the hope that they could be enough for each other dead in Corona’s face, just as it’s dead in her own heart. 

Corona's eyes go a bit glossy. “It's not you, either. Or it's both of us.”

Gideon presses her lips together and nods. They’re both naked as she goes in for the hug, and that’s all it is, now: just a hug, not a precursor to anything more interesting. It’s sad, but it’s also for the best.

Corona lets her head drop onto Gideon’s shoulder. “Will you still teach me how to make tomato sauce?” The last time Cor mouthed words into Gideon’s neck, it had been hot. But there hadn’t been a quaver in her voice then.

“God, Cor,” Gideon says. “Of course I will.”

Corona’s arms stay locked around Gideon’s waist and they lay there, Gideon staring at the periwinkle sheets that feel like butter against her skin, wondering where the hell she went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We could have stopped short of letting Babs get the SPICY ketchup in his eyes, but we didn't. This is for hurting Coronabeth!
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins


	20. The Booby Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our friends skipping the smut, please see the end notes.
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

Gideon parks her bike just outside the garage, not quite sure she can believe her eyes. She’s sure she can recognize her own dog, but this strains credulity. Cam had told her Harrow had started walking Meatball in the afternoon and that she had given Harrow a key to their house to facilitate this. It still doesn’t prepare her for the figure holding a leash, posture ramrod-straight to support the enormous black sun hat.

“You’re home early,” Harrow says, letting herself in Gideon’s front door. Meatball waits patiently while she unlaces her boots.

Gideon leaves her bike outside and follows Harrow in. “What are you _wearing_?”

Harrow waits until Gideon closes the front door before she unhooks the leash. “Paw.” Meatball lifts first his front, then his back paws to get cleaned and wiped down with the little towel. “Good boy, go!” Meatball’s collar jangles loudly as he romps off deeper into the house.

“Again, Harrow, what are you wearing?” Gideon reaches out to tap on the wide brim of Harrow’s hat.

Harrow shoots her a narrow glare from under the brim. “A sunhat. Obviously.”

This version is even larger and more overstated than the one she wears to the barbecues, trimmed with a huge sheer black bow in the back. It makes Gideon aware of just how _small_ Harrow is. She raises an appraising eyebrow.

“Your approval isn’t required,” says Harrow, tilting back the brim of the hat so that she can glare up at Gideon. “If I am going to be outside with your dog five days a week, I will wear any protective gear I see fit.”

Gideon should argue. That’s the way they interact. Instead, she says, “Thank you.”

“It’s practical,” says Harrow. “If you’ve got it from here, I’ll go.” She starts lacing her boots back up.

Gideon can’t figure out how to make her stay.

* * *

It isn't an elegant solution. Gideon perches in the rafters of her woodshed and waits. She probably could have come up with something mechanical that doesn't require her to lurk in her own backyard, but this is more satisfying. When the tool thief comes in, they will be blinded by the light from the nearly full moon.

She's taken notes, seen the pattern. Using strategies from her more paranoid days and kept hairs trapped against the latch bolt, left sawdust piles to be shifted by unaware thieves, and meticulously documented where everything was in case someone came in. She’s done her due diligence with surveillance and has run the numbers. Whoever has been taking her tools will probably stop in tonight.

She waits, thinking about her next project and how nice it will be to work on it without her belt sander constantly going missing.

Right now, it's the circular saw again, she notes with irritation. Why is it always the circular saw?

Her legs cramp up after a little while and she balances precariously, shaking out her limbs. She should have brought snacks and maybe a book. She checks her watch. 2:47 AM. Is the thief going to show or not? She’s getting hungry--

There’s a scuffling right outside the shed and Gideon freezes. The handle moves in the dark, turning. The well-oiled hinges don’t make a noise as the door opens and the figure begins to walk in right under where Gideon is crouched.

The moment the figure is immediately under her, Gideon drops down, light on the balls of her feet, the hood of her sweatshirt drawn up around her face, and launches herself into the tackle.

The shadowy figure makes an _oof_ noise as they both crash down onto the floor. The person weighs hardly anything as they go down, and once flat on their back, goes still under the weight of Gideon's bulk.

Gideon levers herself up onto her elbows, pushing back her hood. Her shoulders relax and she pulls her head back in recognition. She knows who this is. "Harrow?" she asks.

Harrow wheezes. "I can explain," she says. Her chest heaves under Gideon, as if it's hard for her to breathe, and Gideon catches up her wrists so that they can talk without Harrow running away to escape.

She waits for the explanation, but Harrow isn't saying anything out loud. She's just lying there, getting sawdust in her cropped curls and looking intently up at Gideon as if she can read the future in Gideon's pupils.

Gideon becomes suddenly and intensely aware that she has mashed her breasts into the side of Harrow's rib cage. The many pockets of Harrow's vest have things in them, and it's actually really uncomfortable to get poked in the tit with Harrow's phone, spare pen, backup spare pen, knife, and tiny journal.

She opens her mouth to demand the promised explanation and, somehow, instead of talking, Harrow surges to meet her, and then they're kissing like a thunderstorm. Gideon's shocked and rumbling like thunder; Harrow's teeth dig into her bottom lip.

Gideon drags feverishly at the bottom hem of Harrow's button-down shirt. There's a question on her mind-- she's been wondering for months-- and even if this is just a fever dream, the urge to get her hand up Harrowhark Nonagesimus's shirt overpowers her.

Harrow lifts her hips, and the tail of the shirt comes untucked. Gideon slides her palm up Harrow's belly, finds the bottom of her rib cage, reaches the gentle swell of the underside of Harrow's breast, and pauses. "Is this okay?"

By way of response, Harrow snarls and bites Gideon's ear. She takes that as a 'yes' and moves her hand up. There's a nipple there, a metal ring warm from Harrow's body heat. Gideon can feel some sort of charm on it, some kind of bumpy ball. She can't tell what it is, but also it's totally irrelevant.

It's so impossibly hot, Harrow under her, Harrow's _pierced nipple_ under her thumb. Gideon thinks that maybe she's dying.

She lets go of Harrow's wrists to tangle her hand in the hair at the nape of Harrow's neck, and then she finds out that this is _definitely_ a fever dream, because Harrow starts undoing her rows of buttons-- first her vest, then her button-down, until she's down to a thin soft camisole that she's pulling up until Gideon can _see,_ and she wonders whether, if you die in a fever dream, you die in real life, because Harrow's breasts are _perfect_ in the moonlight, with their delicate hoops that lie flat against the curve until Gideon thumbs at one and Harrow hisses.

"Don't you dare mess around," says Harrow, and that, at least, is realistic.

Gideon bends her head and nuzzles at the curve, watches the nipple draw in to a peak to meet her breath. Harrow’s breasts are a revelation. She learns that the ring feels good against her tongue, and if she tugs on it gently with her teeth, Harrow will reach out and rake her fingernails hard down Gideon's spine.

Harrow keeps pressing her hips up against Gideon's, and Gideon isn't letting her go, not unless Harrow wants to leave. But she doesn't, she's arching against Gideon's body and clawing down Gideon's back until her whole body goes taut and trembles.

"Did you just--?" asks Gideon, full of wonder.

"Don't stop," says Harrow, pulling Gideon's head back down. From Harrow, it's as good as an admission. 

And it's like every holiday at once, because apparently Harrow turns into putty when someone plays with her nipples, and Gideon has just discovered how much she would happily play with them until, well, forever basically, which is good, because it takes probably an eon before Harrow gasps one last time and pushes Gideon's head away.

Gideon is dizzy with success, blood pounding between her own legs, and she looks down and the little ornaments on Harrow's nipple rings resolve into sudden and predictable clarity. "Harrow, are those _skulls_ ?" Which is a little weird, because she's put them in her _mouth_ , and if she'd known before she would have--

well, done exactly the same thing, especially for that moment when she'd figured out how to suck and tug at the same time and Harrow had made this _noise_ \--

"Of course they're skulls," says Harrow, forcing Gideon's scattered thoughts back to the present.

Which reminds Gideon. "Why were you stealing my circular saw?"

"I was going to give it back," says Harrow. "Once I'd finished using it."

"That is not the point--"

"That is exactly the point--"

"It's _my_ circular saw--"

Harrow breathes out hard through her nose and tugs the camisole back down over her chest, as if somehow Gideon has wronged her by bringing her off about six times in a row and then offering to let her use her circular saw. She rolls over, hard, and rises to her feet in the singular act of physical coordination Gideon has ever seen from her. She's out the door and away into the night before Gideon can process what's happened.

It leaves Gideon alone to stumble back to her house, confused and significantly bruised around the mouth.

She needs to talk to Cam about this.

* * *

Cam squints up at her in the darkness. “Gideon, it is past three o’clock in the morning.”

“I caught the tool thief,” says Gideon urgently.

Cam flicks on her bedside lamp and eyes Gideon. “So you and Harrow worked things out?”

“She has pierced nipples--”

“I did _not_ need to know that--”

“-- and we made out and-- Cam, how do I know if she likes me?”

“Go talk to _her_ , Gideon. I can’t talk to you about this, and I’m sleeping.” With that, Cam turns the light back off, plunging the room back into darkness until Gideon’s eyes adjust again. 

“Cam--”

“Go,” says Cam again. “If you were just making out with her, she’s probably still up.”

Gideon goes.

* * *

She pauses at the Sextus-Nonagesimus patio door. It’s locked, and she doesn’t know if she should knock. There are lights on, upstairs and in the library, but she doesn’t want to wake Palamedes if he’s sleeping.

He solves her conundrum a few moments later by appearing in the kitchen. “Hello, Gideon,” he says, opening the door and welcoming her in as if 3:42 AM is a reasonable hour to visit. 

“Is Harrow here?” Gideon asks urgently. “I need her.”

“She just went upstairs,” begins Palamedes. He says some other things, too, but Gideon isn’t listening, because she’s too busy pushing past him to take the stairs two at a time.

She doesn’t knock on Harrow’s bedroom door, just pushes it open.

Harrow turns to her in a high-necked nightgown. “Go away, Griddle,” she says. There are spots of color high on her naked cheekbones. Without makeup, she looks even paler and more washed-out than usual.

“No way in hell, Nonagesimus.” Gideon stands under the doorframe and plants her weight. Harrow doesn’t have to talk, but Gideon’s not leaving.

Ignoring her, Harrow goes to sit on the edge of the bed, taking her piercings from her ears, making a show of being annoyed.

Gideon keeps standing there.

Inevitably, Harrow runs out of piercings to take off. She stares at Gideon, strangely naked without the jewelry. When it becomes obvious to her that Gideon has no intention of leaving, she starts to take off her necklace and her bracelets, laying them on her bedside table with a clearly clenched jaw.

There’s no way that Gideon is going to let her get away now. She stays, watching, desperate for acknowledgement. Finally, Harrow looks up once again, her jewelry gone, wary. Then her face screws up.

“Are you still wearing your shoes?”

Gideon looks down at her feet. Her sneakers look back. Fuck. She must have forgotten to take them off in her pursuit.

“Take them off, you animal.” 

Leaning into the doorframe, Gideon lifts her foot up to wrestle one shoe off, then the other, and then stands there with her sneakers in her hands. They look at each other again, the quiet tick of Harrow’s bedside table clock the only sound in the room.

Harrow finally caves and rubs at her temples. She hasn’t unclenched her jaw at all. “Why are you here, Griddle?”

Gideon looks down at the sneakers in her hands, and then up to Harrow, and then back down at her sneakers. There’s a bit of dirt at the toe she wants to scratch off, but it seems rude to do that inside Harrow’s house. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. You took off really fast.” Harrow stares at her, entirely skeptical. “Okay fine, and we totally made out--” Gideon looks out the door and down the hallway. Palamedes is nowhere to be seen. She puts her head back in. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Blinking very slowly, Harrow turns her face away to look at the large black bookshelf she has standing against the far wall of the bedroom. “I’m fine.”

“We can pretend it didn’t happen.” Gideon’s shoulders sag. It would suck _ginormous_ balls if that’s what Harrow wants, but Gideon can respect that. Or at least, she’ll try.

Harrow arranges her nightgown and tucks her knees up into her chest, making herself small. “Why are you still here?” she asks, voice thick.

“Something is clearly wrong and I want to help fix it,” she says. Harrow grimaces, so Gideon pushes on. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Harrow snarls. “I’m fine.”

Gideon waits.

Finally, after a period of silence, Harrow huffs. “You’re busy. You have hockey, you have work, and you have movie night. When you’re not doing that, you’re doing Cam, and maybe Corona, too. I--” Harrow shakes her head, like a bird snapping its own neck. “I’m very demanding. You don’t have time for me. That’s all.”

Gideon shakes her head, disbelieving. “That’s bullshit. You don’t have to tell me the actual problem, but don’t lie to me. If you’re going to say something, tell me what the actual problem is.”

Harrow presses her forehead into her knees. When she looks up again, she puts her legs back down with gravity. Her expression is weary. “You don’t actually care about me,” she says, voice tight like it hurts to admit.

Gideon’s feet start moving before the rest of her body catches up and she finds herself dropping her shoes at the side of Harrow’s bed, and then her knees sink onto the ground beside them. Harrow looks away and Gideon lays her hand on Harrow’s knee. It’s so small under her palm. “Harrow.” Harrow looks back down to her. “Of course I care about you.”

Harrow swallows and Gideon watches a wall come back up in Harrow’s eyes. They turn from tired and beleaguered to stony. “Griddle,” Harrow says, and pulls her knee away. “I completely fucking hate you.”

The words score deep into Gideon’s chest, but Harrow is making herself small again and Gideon doesn’t want to leave until either she’s sorted this through or Harrow has exiled her. “Do you?” she asks. It’s risking her hand, but she touches the side of Harrow’s face, uses her fingertips to trace the angle of her jaw that makes itself known when Harrow clenches her teeth.

Harrow doesn’t flinch. They stare at each other, neither willing to back down. It’s seventh grade all over again, except Harrow’s face is soft under her hands, which is a lot better than the fingernails that used to dig into her arm. And then Harrow turns her face infinitesimally. Gideon would never have noticed the movement if it didn’t press the pads of her fingers against a bony cheek. 

She leans in, slow, holding the eye contact and giving Harrow every opportunity to pull away. Harrow doesn’t move, even when they’re so close Gideon can feel Harrow’s shallow breath on her own lips. If this is a game of chicken, there’s no way she’s going to lose. Their lips meet like leaves in a gentle breeze falling onto the surface of a pond.

For the first time _ever_ , Harrow’s eyes close first.

It feels like Gideon has cracked a rib. She grabs onto Harrow and pulls, all raw strength and no finesse, and they both end up on the floor in a tangle of limbs. To make up for manhandling her, Gideon cushions the fall with her own body, so that Harrow ends up on top of her with her knee jabbing uncomfortably into her thigh, just below her quad.

“You know,” Harrow says, when they come up for air. She’s wearing the kind of faint smile an outsider would miss entirely. It’s private; _theirs_. “My bed is right there. We don’t have to stay on the floor.”

Gideon makes a choked noise. She clears her throat and tries again. “Yes,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut begins at: "Gideon's shocked and rumbling like thunder; Harrow's teeth dig into her bottom lip."  
> It ends at: "Which reminds Gideon. 'Why were you stealing my circular saw?'"


	21. Why Are Cam and Cor Like This

At movie night, Cam’s phone buzzes while Corona’s in the bathroom. _Finally_. There’s no context for it.

Cam looks at the other end of the sofa, where Harrow’s head is tipped ever so slightly onto Gideon’s shoulder. They aren’t exactly snuggling, but Gideon’s arm is up on the back of the sofa behind Harrow, and it’s a near thing. For Harrow, it’s practically taking out a billboard.

 _I’m happy for them_ , she texts back.

A few minutes later, when Cor comes back, Cam settles into her place on Cor’s shoulder. It’s a little awkward with the way Meatball is laid over her feet on the floor, but the warmth is welcome and his tail slowly sweeps the floor in pleasing swishing sounds. She glances over at Gideon, who’s cueing up today’s movie one-handed. It’s funny how the same gesture can mean such different things.

When Gideon hits play, Cor turns off the floor lamp behind them, plunging the room into flickering shadows from the screen. The August days are getting shorter again, and it’s a little sad. They’ve only got a few more months of barbecues left. She’s going to enjoy what she has while she has it, even if it’s temporary.

Cor squeezes her arm, offering comfort. Cam carries her emotions in her muscles, and they’re transparent to Cor now. She needs to focus on the movie before she gives anything away.

Fifteen minutes later, Gideon tears her from a movie-induced trance. “Is this okay? You’re all really quiet.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Harrow. “I actually like this one.”

“Yeah, actually,” Cam says. “This one can stay.”

Gideon whoops. “I knew I’d find one you’d both like!”

Harrow’s small, secret smile doesn’t even flicker. “Sheer probability was in your favor. We have movie night nearly every week; it was bound to happen eventually.”

Gideon goes to say something and Cam reaches behind her for one of the many couch throws laying around. Sticking her tongue out in concentration, she readies her arm and snaps the end out towards Gideon, catching her with the tail end of it.

“Ow-- hey!” Gideon grabs at the throw and Cam laughs, tugging it back to her before Gideon can get a hand on it. She wraps the material around her shoulders, more for comfort than for warmth, and settles in. It’s one of the longer throws too, and she feels a childish sort of giddiness at it.

Cor glances at her and smiles. “Comfy?”

It’s a long enough throw for the both of them, and Cam lifts an arm to drape it around Cor’s shoulders too. 

The smile Cor gives her is radiant. Cam’s chest fills with something light and warm and she smiles back.

* * *

Cor apologises for her early morning when she leaves after the first movie instead of lingering. It’s fine, but it leaves Cam on one side of the couch and Gideon and Harrow on the other. Which would normally be fine. Two years ago, she would be inserting herself between them as a physical barrier. Now?

Now, none of them are paying particular attention to the movie that autoplayed and, despite Gideon’s best efforts to be a good roommate, her eyes are on Harrow, not the screen.

Cam clears her throat, shifts to sit back up and pointedly ignores the way her lap feels empty without Corona laid out on it.

"Griddle," says Harrow, moments later, in a careful tone of voice Cam has never heard. She turns her eyes and waits for the follow-up.

There isn't one. No inflection in the eyebrows, no twitch in the cheeks or the jaw. Harrow's entire body remains impassive. She must have conveyed something, though. Gideon's entire posture has changed, and her eyes open that fraction that tells Cam that Gideon's excited.

An entire conversation in two syllables and Gideon's body language. It grates, like listening to half of someone else's telephone conversation. She'll get it eventually, she knows; possibly whether she wants to or not. She knows how to read Gideon, and that expression is not an innocent one.

Cam clears her throat again. “Ah, excuse me. I have a case tomorrow.”

Harrow nods goodnight and Cam tries to not notice the way Gideon’s hand slips lower off the couch back to settle against Harrow’s side. It’s not that Cam isn’t happy for them-- she is; she just can’t see this right now. She’ll congratulate them in the morning.

For now, though, she walks away, back upstairs to her cold, empty bed.

* * *

The sky is at its darkest by the time they let up and Gideon sprawls out on her sheets, pressing her face into the cool side of her pillow. There’s the soft yellow glow cast onto the floor from the bathroom vanity lights that slips past the cracked-open door and Gideon sighs, letting her eyes flutter closed drowsily.

Beside her, Harrow lays on her side and traces the indentations the rope has left on Gideon's forearms. "Is she okay?"

"Who, Cam?" Gideon's still not all the way back to reality, still vibrating with everything Harrow makes her feel. It's so new, and Gideon wants to bask in this feeling for as long as she has it. She can't quite believe it's real. In her heart of hearts, she's still waiting for someone to take it away, move her on to the next family, where she'll have to start again from scratch.

"She was a little bit weird earlier." That's a hell of a statement coming from Harrow who has cornered the market on weird by beating all the competitors into submission.

Gideon stretches out her legs, anchoring herself in the way her muscles burn. "She's a fool," she mutters and yawns dramatically. 

Harrow blinks. "What?"

"Cam could fix all her problems in two seconds if she could pull her head out of her own ass," Gideon says. The specifics aren't hers to share, and anyway, she doesn't want to spend post-coital cuddle time talking about her roommate. "C'mere, I owe you one."

As usual, Harrow takes this too seriously. "You owe me nothing, Gideon Nav."

Gideon grins at her. "Then indulge me."

Harrow gives her a soft smile-- the one she reserves for Gideon and Gideon alone.

Gideon pulls her in.

* * *

“You all make your way through the town, past tired merchants folding up their stalls for the day in the market, past kids gathering together in a field in anticipation of evening fireflies, towards the edge of town where Canaan House-- the tavern where you all met-- is located. It’s doors are wide open to the warm evening air and you can hear the faint sounds of a violin being played within, and silverware on plates as dinner is had. It feels homely-- just like the first time you all stepped in here-- and yet it also feels so different,” Palamedes says, playing music in the background that sounds an awful lot like the one about the Hobbits.

Cam glances around the table and all around her looking back are smiling faces. Palamedes’s voice always takes on a particular gravitas at the end of D&D sessions, but this one is different. The consensus around the table is that this will likely be the last game in this campaign. They’ve restored the rightful ruler to the throne, they’ve found the last of the kingdom’s lost artifacts, and they’ve consumed next to every variety of mead available at least once. It is a tidy end to their fighting days and the atmosphere reflects it.

“You walk in and find that it’s a quiet night at Canaan House. There’s an animated skeleton sweeping quietly in the corner and a few patrons having their meals by themselves. A man in white robes stands behind the counter cleaning mugs. The candles flicker with the wind that blows through the open door and it is a comforting sight. What would you like to do?”

“I’d like to go up to the bar,” Gideon says, “and pull out a chair and take a seat. Good evening, old man. It has been a while.”

Cam looks around. “We’ll join Gork at the bar.”

Palamedes nods. “As you all sit down, the man lifts his head and beams when he recognises you. Oh, good evening, good evening to you all. It _has_ been some time, hasn’t it?” The voice is quavering but familiar and Cam can’t help her smile. “Sit, sit, I have heard the legend of your adventures. My, how you have grown since the day you stepped foot in here-- oh hello!” Palamedes holds out his hand and Harrow pretends to hand off Crux. “So have you, my lizard friend.”

“A round for all of us, I think,” Gideon says with a satisfied little smile.

“He busies himself preparing drinks and sets a flagon in front of each of you. On the house! But first, tell me the tales of your travels.” Palamedes sits up and claps his hands together, a mirrored content smile on his face. “And that’s where we’ll end our campaign tonight.”

Cam joins in on the round of applause, leaning into Cor’s side when she’s pulled in for a hug. “Thank you, Palamedes.”

“Yes, thank you,” Corona echoes. She’s wiping a bright tear away from the corner of her eye.

Palamedes pushes his eyeglasses up. Predictably, they slide right back down again to the tip of his nose. “Before we close up, would anyone like to go over what their characters do after their adventures are over?”

Corona does not seem eager to let go, so Cam continues to lean against her.

“Sure,” Gideon says. “Gork will probably go spend a year or two wandering with Nonius before we find a nice town to settle in, one kind of like this one. Something with a parcel of farmland where we’ll retire together. I’ll help raise Crux like he’s my son and he’ll grow up big and strong.”

Harrow smiles uncharacteristically softly. “There are still a few kinds of mead we haven’t tried. Maybe we’ll do that on our adventures.”

Something hollow rings in Cam’s chest. This campaign has fulfilled its original goal and then some. Gideon and Harrow don’t hate each other anymore. Hell, they’ve gotten together and so have their characters. It’s not even just that. What Cam has is nice. It’s incredible, even. She has Palamedes once a month and it’s so much better without exclusivity. But still, there’s an emptiness in her chest she can’t explain or wish away. Swallowing, she puts herself back into the game. “We certainly have enough gold to retire comfortably,” she says and looks over the party funds. “It’s a lot of cash.”

Cor sits up straighter beside her. “We should buy a tavern.”

“It’s a lot of work,” Cam says, but she’s already warming to the idea.

“We should do a B&B-- a bar and brothel, that is-- that serves a rotating selection of the best of the mead we’ve had,” Gideon says and squeezes Harrow’s shoulder. Harrow smiles ever so slightly. Cam’s heart hurts again.

“We’ll workshop the brothel part,” she says, shaking her head fondly. “Are we agreed, then? A tavern two years later?”

“Are you going to do anything in the two years, Clarabelle?” Harrow asks.

Corona’s eyes go distant. “I think I’d like to go back to that underground fighting pit and challenge the champion to a rematch.” Gideon whoops loudly and then Cor turns to Cam with a small smile. “And then I guess I’d see what Jenny is doing.”

Cam’s chest contracts until she feels like there’s a hand squeezing her heart and shoving it up her throat. “Uh, I...”

“If you want me to join you, of course.” Cor adds hastily. She shrugs, and Cam feels it against her cheek. 

“Well, I guess Jenny would go back to her father and balance the books until his company is out of debt. Maybe I’ll sail a few shipping routes with him as well. And then...” She can’t bring herself to look Cor. It feels like so much. “And then I’d like to visit the Frostspire Peaks again. Maybe with Clarabelle.”

Cam feels Cor perk up more than she sees it and it brings a smile to her face.

“It’s settled then. Gorkius and Jarabelle--” Palamedes winces at the portmanteau and Cam kicks Gideon in the shin lightly under the table-- “adventure for two years, and then we all buy a tavern together with possible lady favors!” Gideon says, then raises her mug. “To two years of adventures and everything to come.”

Cam mourns the warmth and touch when she has to pull away to reach for her own cup and lift it to Gideon’s.

“Please don’t spill on the table,” Palamedes pleads, so they all clank their cups together very carefully. “I know we all just finished, but do we want another campaign? We can also try another system. I was looking at indie games the other weekend and--”

Cam lets Palamedes’s voice fade out in her head and she picks up her character token off the map. Palamedes had put in time to paint the minifigure and it is now well-worn from touch, scrapes, and oily fingers. She closes her hand around the figure and looks back up to her friends. Two years. It feels like absolutely no time has passed at all, and also like she’s known these friends around the table for a lifetime. This eclectic group of people has wormed their way inexorably into the heart. She can’t imagine a life without them.


	22. Red, Red, and More Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood in this chapter.

The counters are full of tomatoes. Corona knows that this happened last year, too-- Cam had described it to her in text messages-- but she hadn’t been invited over to help.

This year, she’s standing side by side with Gideon in the kitchen, learning how to make red sauce. Between them, they’ve already got two pots full to the brim with tomatoes, simmering merrily on the back burners. They’re both sweating in the heat of the kitchen, but it feels good. They’ve gotten so much _done_. Gideon has shown her how to prepare the tomatoes, chop onions and garlic, brown them in oil until they’re tender, add the tomato slurry and simmer the whole mess until the scent of food wreathes the kitchen. 

Now it’s her turn to do it on her own. She has the oil up to temperature, and Gideon has shown her the trick of cutting up onions quickly, pushing the cutting board toward the wall so that her eyes don’t tear up as much. It’s going well. 

Corona doesn’t even notice the cut until she looks down and sees the blood. It surprises her for a minute how red it looks smeared across the smooth pale yellow of the onion. Picking up her off-hand and bringing it to her face, she notices the line scored deep into her right thumb. As she stares at the cut, a rivulet of blood curls crimson over her wrist. It’s very quiet in the kitchen.

“Cor?” Gideon’s voice doesn’t break her trance, not even when she drops her own cutting board with a resounding thwack. “Cor!”

She’s swaying on her feet, and she doesn’t know why. The sight of blood doesn’t bother her, not even when there’s this much of it. She doesn’t resist as Gideon takes hold of her arm.

* * *

Cam’s in the living room, bare feet up on the sofa, answering work emails with the sound of Corona and Gideon cooking to keep her company. Meatball is sleeping under the coffee table, snoring gently. The entire downstairs smells amazing, and she’s keenly anticipating dinner. It’s hot out, but there’s a cross-breeze circulating, and she has a glass of iced tea by her elbow. 

It’s shaping up to be an excellent Saturday when there’s a crash from the kitchen, and Gideon shouts in the tone that means something’s really wrong.

Meatball wakes with a start, ears twitching, and barks loudly. Cam shoves her laptop away, letting the sofa cushion its fall, and runs to the kitchen. Gideon stands in front of the sink, one arm around Corona’s waist, holding Cor’s hand under the running water.

Gideon glances over her shoulder and meets Cam’s eyes. There’s a wild note of near-panic in her face, and her words are brittle, like they might break under the stress. “Cam, I need a chair for her.” 

The legs scrape as Cam drags it across the tile. There’s blood on the backsplash, splatters on the floor, a pile of chopped onion spilling over the counter. “What did you do?” She directs the question at Gideon; Cor doesn’t seem like she’s in a fit state to answer.

“The knives are sharp.” Gideon rips off a length of paper towel and tries to get Cor’s attention. Cor’s face stays blank. “Can you apply pressure?”

Corona doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Her face is very pale as blood soaks through the paper towel. Gideon has to reach to grab a clean dish towel and wrap it around the wound, on top of the paper towel. “Cam, help?”

Cam takes Cor’s hand in her own and applies pressure. “I thought you were looking after her,” she snarls.

“She was doing fine up until she cut herself!” says Gideon, and then reels it in with visible force of will. “She’s going to be okay, Cam. I’ve cut myself worse, and I’m fine.”

As Gideon washes the blood-- _Corona’s_ blood-- off her hands in the sink, the towel takes on a faint pink tinge.

“Right,” says Gideon, wiping her hands on her pants. “We’re going to urgent care.”

“I’ll get the keys,” says Cam.

A furrow appears between Gideon’s eyebrows, and she presses her lips together. “No, keep applying pressure and make sure the hand stays elevated,” says Gideon. “I’ll drive.”

It takes both of them to get Corona safely buckled into the back seat. The only consolation is that the towel isn’t getting any pinker. Cam finds herself babbling, a low stream of meaningless words, meant to soothe and comfort. By the time Gideon parks in the urgent care lot, Cor’s eyes have focused again. It’s a lot easier to get her out of the car.

They don’t have to wait long before someone comes to usher Corona to go see a doctor. Cam can’t bring herself to let go of Corona’s other hand and nobody stops her. That she has been worrying over Corona’s hand the whole time probably helps her cause and the doctor doesn’t seem at all surprised when he sees there are two in the room.

“If you could please take a seat,” the doctor requests, and Cam relegates herself to the chair in the corner. She wants to get up and pace, to rock back and forth on the balls of her feet like she does when she can’t think clearly, but she’s been given instruction and there’s nothing more she can do to help.

The doctor sets up his suture kit and Corona must see the way Cam’s jaw is clenched. “I’m okay,” she says and her voice cuts through the nervous noise in Cam’s head like a knife. “It’s just stitches.”

Cam thinks about the way Corona’s face went an ashy sort of pale, the tremors in her fingers. “You wouldn’t talk to me.”

The doctor leans in and Corona’s face twists at what must be the brief prick of pain. “I was just dehydrated. I got excited with the tomatoes, you know how it is.”

Cam does know. She’s been on the other side of this with Gideon reminding her to hydrate when there’s a particularly difficult case she’s working on. It’s easy to lose herself in the rhythm of things half as fun as sauce making.

“When was the last time you ate? Drank water?” the doctor asks, tidying the end of the sutures.

Cor pulls a slightly embarrassed face. “Breakfast... I think?”

The doctor steps back, peeling off his gloves. “I feel you know what I’m going to say next, yes?”

“To eat and drink water?” Cor offers, good-naturedly.

He nods. “Your stitches will dissolve, so you won’t need to come back and get them removed. Keep them dry for 24 hours, and after that, keep it clean. If it leaks, put a bandage on. Any questions?”

“So she’ll be okay?” Cam asks, disregarding the note of anxiousness in her voice.

“You’re all set,” says the doctor. “Be careful with knives, and remember to stay hydrated. It’s hot out there.”

The three of them walk out of the urgent care facility together, the second time they’ve handled an injury together this year. Cam had thought it was the worst thing in the world when Gideon was hurt. She didn't know how wrong she'd been. 

Objectively, Gideon's injury was so much worse than Corona's cut. She knows that, but it wasn’t Gideon's blood on her kitchen counter. It’s a slowly-dawning realization that Cam can't be objective here. Not where Corona is concerned.

She loops the fingers of her right hand through the uninjured fingers of Corona’s left, and, for once, Corona doesn’t pull away.

Gideon meets them in the lobby and doesn’t say a thing about it, just slides behind the wheel and brings them back home.

* * *

They get home to find Harrow in the kitchen, wearing nitrile gloves and wiping down the counter with bleach. The spilled onions are gone, the stove is off, the pots of sauce covered. “Is she okay?” Harrow asks.

“Only needed three stitches,” says Corona, holding up her bandaged hand. Cam’s in tow, because she’s still unwilling to let go of Cor’s uninjured left hand. “I’m fine.” Her tone is airy and light. The opposite of the way Cam feels, thick and heavy, like the emotion is going to choke her.

“Can I talk to you?” Cam asks. It’s abrupt and too intense, but Cor lets her lead the way into the living room. They settle together on their side of the sofa. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” asks Cor. “I got hurt and you helped me. Thank you.”

Corona is everything that Cam wants, everything that she never had with Palamedes. She doesn’t know exactly when she fell in love with her best friend, but she knows the weight of this feeling crushing her chest. But this isn’t the time for that-- there may never _be_ a time for that. For now, she owes Cor an apology for being an overbearing worrywart. “I can get intense. I’m sorry,” she says again. “I understand if you don’t want to see me for a while. I completely overreacted.”

Cor’s eyebrows wing up. “Actually, I wanted to ask if I could stay with you for a few days? There are some things that are going to be really awkward with these bandages on, and I don't really want to have to rely on Ianthe.”

“Of course,” says Cam automatically. The prospect of having Cor under her roof, safe and home where Cam can keep an eye on her fills her with a rush of warmth.

And then the implications of the offer loom in her mind: Corona, peaceful in sleep, all long legs and creamy skin only a wall away from Cam’s own bed. She knows Cor so well now, knows exactly how she sprawls in her sleep and the way she draws the covers close around her waist, like she's looking for a hug in her dreams.

Corona, at the table with them for an everyday dinner. Corona, borrowing Cam's bathroom to soak in the tub. Corona, joining them in the evenings along with Harrow, who reads a book ferociously until 9:00PM and then drags Gideon away from the video games and up the stairs with a focused expression.

Which means they'll be left alone, like they were in the early days, the late nights after the barbecues and the first movie nights. Cam wants that, all of it, suddenly and desperately, which means she's been a fool. She has always loved Corona. The realization makes her dizzy.

"I'm going to get you a sports drink," she says, because she knows that's safe, because she wants one herself even though she knows dehydration isn't contagious. God knows Gideon keeps them in stock. "And then I'm going to put fresh sheets on the bed in the spare room."

"You don't have to go to all that trouble," says Cor. "I'm always here."

"You got injured under our roof," says Cam. "We're going to take care of you."

"I guess I have to text Ianthe," says Cor, looking pale again as she retrieves her phone. It's awkward; the bandages mean she can't use her right thumb.

"I could help," Cam offers. "You could dictate to me." Anything to keep Cor from making that face, like this time the knife has gone into her gut.

“No, this is something I need to do.” Cor makes another terrible face. “Ianthe always knows if it’s not me.”

Cam can’t sit there and watch Corona throw herself against the jagged rocks of Ianthe. The nervous energy that’s been ricocheting through her system demands an outlet. “I’ll get the bed made up?”

Cor looks up at her, eyes wide and violet and blessedly _normal_ again. “You don’t have to,” she says, even though they both know Cam is going to insist. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

* * *

  
As much as she loves tomatoes, Gideon doesn't want to see another one for a little while. She’s working on getting the tomatoes put away out of sight, Harrow working alongside her, unquestioningly there for her. Gideon appreciates it. 

She’s gotten mason jars lined up on the counter to can the sauce they’ve already made when Cam’s footsteps pound up the central staircase. There’s a brief moment of ominous silence, and then, from upstairs, the snap-crack of a sheet, violent enough to echo down the stairwell.

"I'd better go check on Cam," Gideon says to Harrow. "Could you finish getting the sauce into jars, please?"

Harrow colors, very faintly. "You'll make it up to me later."

The blood rushes away from Gideon's brain. She's learned that's the kind of promise Harrow makes to keep. It's still so new and so thrilling, and frankly, she'll be glad for the reminder that she's alive and in one piece. But that's for later.

"I will," she promises, and goes upstairs to check on Cam.

Cam's halfway through making the guest bed with fresh sheets. Her movements are sharp and tense, with none of their usual fluid grace.

Gideon goes for blunt. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," says Cam, pulling a case over a pillow as if it's single-handedly responsible for murdering her puppy. "It's Cor who's hurt."

"She's going to be fine," Gideon says, soothingly, but Cam isn't done.

"She had to get stitches." Cam slams the fresh pillow onto the duvet. "And you know Ianthe won't help her out. She's staying with us for a few days.”

Gideon nods and leans on the door jamb, arms carefully folded over her chest. There are a few things she knows about Cam, chief among them that she can get snappy when she feels like she’s lost control. The exaggerated actions and lashing out is frustration boiling over and Gideon can understand that.

“Are you going to help?" Cam eventually snaps with an irked look.

"Of course," says Gideon, looking at the freshly-made bed. "What do you want me to do?”

"We wouldn’t be doing this if you had done your job and paid attention-- you know what, it’s fine, I’ll do it.” Cam waves Gideon away with an unwarranted degree of frustration and Gideon begins to leave. “Go take care of Cor. Properly this time,” Cam shouts down the hall. “Make sure she eats."

It’s hard to take Cam’s harsh words personally when she’s so clearly upset. It gives Gideon a lot of food for thought. She turns the ideas over in her mind as she makes her way down the stairs to join Corona in the living room.

* * *

Corona's sitting there on the sofa, her bandaged right hand resting in her lap. There's a sports drink on the side table next to her, cold and with a ring of condensation dripping onto its coaster. Her phone is a few feet further than that, face down and out of arm's reach.

Gideon slides onto the sofa next to her. "How are you feeling? I heard you'll be staying with us for a couple days."

"I've had better days. Thanks for letting me hang out. You know how Ianthe's bedside manner is." Cor gives her a watery smile that briefly brings a real one to Gideon's face, because Corona has an extraordinary array of dazzling fake smiles. It's a true honor to get a smile like this, with all of its glorious imperfections left intact.

"Yeah, it's come up," says Gideon, and lowers her voice. "I'm guessing you didn't remind Cam that you're left-handed."

"What do you mean?" Corona asks, quiet but as bright as ever.

"Not that we're not happy to have you for a few days," Gideon begins, because having Cor over is the best idea she's heard and she'd do it on a permanent basis if it meant getting her friend away from her terrible sister, if she thought that Cor would ever agree, "but you don't need us, Coronabeth Tridentarius. It's three stitches on your non-dominant thumb. You're fine if you want to go home."

"I don't understand."

Gideon has spent hours around a D&D table with Cor, and she knows that faux-innocent tone. It was convincing the first three times, and then for a while afterwards, but not anymore. She shakes her head. "Don't try that with me. I have slept with you and I know exactly how much you really need your right hand."

Cor flushes, and it's lovely to see. She leans in close to Gideon's ear and whispers. "Are you going to tell Cam?"

Gideon slings an arm around Corona's shoulder. "I know what you're up to."

" _Please_ don't tell." There's desperation in the tone, and maybe Cor is a little more out of it than Gideon had thought.

"I support you 100%," she says. "Go get her." Louder, she adds, "What do you want to eat? I'm supposed to be getting you food."

"Nothing with tomato tonight," says Corona.

"Grilled cheese and chicken soup?" suggests Gideon. "It's not as fancy as you're used to."

"That's perfect." 

* * *

Cam and Gideon get home on Monday to find Corona draped over the sofa in a crop top and the shortest shorts Cam has ever seen in her life. She’s tapping at her work laptop, and when the door closes behind Gideon, she lays it aside.

“Hey,” she says. “I took a long lunch and finished my day from home so I could bring over a few things from next door. I hope that’s okay.” Languid, she unfolds herself from the sofa and stands.

There’s a long, awkward pause before Gideon breaks the silence. “Of course that’s all right. Our home is your home. You know that.”

Belatedly, Cam realizes she’s staring. “Definitely okay,” she manages. There’s just so much leg, uniformly tanned from a summer in the Tridentarius pool. It’s distracting. There’s nowhere safe to look-- Corona’s eyes see too much, and she can’t meet them, but everywhere else is skin and curves. 

She’s saved from having to think by their doorbell ringing, a tinny version of the Imperial March playing in their living room. It’s a relic of Gideon’s last attempt to annoy Harrow before they’d begun dating. Gideon hasn’t changed it since. It’s grown on all of them.

“Oh, that’ll be mine,” Corona says, and goes to open the door. 

Cam looks over her shoulder. There’s a person there with an insulated bag and he looks at his phone. “Uh, for... Coronabeth?”

“That’s me.” Corona pulls her credit card out of her pocket with her bandaged hand. It slips and falls onto the welcome mat, and Cam can’t look away as Cor bends over. She’s at the perfect vantage point to appreciate Corona’s miles of creamy thigh.

The scene rises unbidden to the forefront of her mind. “Bend and snap.” She hears Elle’s voice ring in her ears, perfect in timbre and quality from what must be a dozen watches of Legally Blonde. It brings a brief smile to her face before she schools her lips back into submission. Cor’s not hers to think about that way, no matter how high cut the jean shorts, no matter how exaggerated the bend may be. It’s fun. It’s flirtatious. That’s it. 

But it means that Cor’s flirting again. It’s been months since Cam has really seen that, since Cor had stopped flirting with her after she’d broken up with Palamedes. It’s good to see her give that smile, move with that roll in her hips again, even though it stings that it isn’t for her.

“I got us takeout. As a thank you,” Cor says, taking the food and closing the door behind her. They all follow her to the dining table where she lays out the spread. 

Harrow comes out of the kitchen, gloves tucked into a vest pocket in deference to her freshly-washed and damp hands. From the angle of approach, she’s let herself in the back door after walking Meatball. “Hello, Cam. Hello, Corona,” she says, as if it’s completely normal to find Cor at the middle house at five-thirty on a Monday, as if Cor isn’t skipping her usual dinner date with Ianthe to be here. There’s no corresponding verbal greeting for Gideon, because Gideon lights up when she sees Harrow and kisses her hello, hands gentle on Harrow’s waist.

Harrow breaks away, looking flushed and cross and pleased all at once. Happiness is a good look on her.

Corona starts opening lids. Cam’s eyebrows wing up. There’s lamb shoulder, calamari, moussaka, falafels, and a little box of baklava. It’s all their individual orders, and somehow, Cor knows them all. 

Realisation must dawn on Gideon and Harrow at a similar time because they too look up.

“Cor...” Gideon starts, and then loses her words.

Cor shrugs but she’s smiling and it severely undercuts how nonchalant the motion looks. “I know things. It’s in my job description to know.”

Well, that’s true, but it’s one thing to know things because one is paid to know, and another entirely to do so on one’s own time and with one’s own effort. 

Meatball must finally have caught whiff of the food because they all hear the sound of nails skittering on hardwood when he takes the corner and skids to the table, panting excitedly.

“Oh yes, Meatball, it smells very good, doesn’t it?” Gideon says, crouching down and giving Meatball a ruffling around the ears. “That’s Cor’s lamb, but I suspect if you ask nicely enough she might give you some.”

Cam snorts but Cor shoots her a look that says she just might. Cam shakes her head fondly in return.

“Thank you,” Harrow says, and reaches for the falafels. It’s a nod to her regard for them all that she doesn’t immediately dive for the baklava. She’ll eat a single falafel and then descend, leaving Gideon falafel leftovers for lunch. Corona beams and portions out baklava so that they can all have some.

“I’ll get plates from the kitchen,” says Gideon.

Something warm glows in Cam’s chest when Cor hands her a serving of moussaka on a plate and she corrals the wave of fondness into the recesses of her mind. This is a very kind gesture, but it's not for her alone. It’s also for the others. Cam can appreciate that.

* * *

With hockey out of season and Corona over anyway, there’s no reason for them _not_ to watch a movie on Tuesday. They don’t even talk about it: Cor gets in late, and as she’s taking her shoes off, Gideon turns off her video game, Harrow marks her place in her book, and Cam closes her laptop to make room for Cor on the sofa.

“Food’s on the stove waiting for you,” says Gideon, who’d replied to Cor’s apologetic “ _I’ll be late”_ text with an emphatic “ _We’ll save you dinner”_. At her feet, Meatball’s tail thumps on the ground.

Cor’s eyes get wide, as if she doesn’t know that they’ll always make space for her, whether she’s injured or not. “Let me change, and I’ll be right down.”

It isn’t long before Cor’s coming back down the stairs, and it’s Cam’s turn for wide eyes, because she’s changed out of her blazer and pencil skirt into a cami and another pair of tiny shorts, and somehow it’s _worse_ than the previous day, because these shorts are some kind of silky fabric that clings and gives Cam specific ideas about what she might or might not be wearing under them.

Which is absolutely not a thought she should be having while Corona is dropping onto the couch and _lounging_ , bowl of paella balanced in her uninjured hand. She drapes her torso over Cam's lap, and Cam can see the faint outlines of her nipples through thin fabric.

On the other side of the couch, Harrow and Gideon aren't faring much better. Cor's long, smooth legs cross lightly over Harrow's lap, resting the weight on Gideon's solid thighs.

"You could sit on my lap to make room," Gideon suggests hopefully, making a meaningful face at Harrow.

"Absolutely not." Harrow leans, just a fraction of an inch, into Gideon's side, and then she rests a hand just above Corona's knee. "This is fine."

"Whatever you want," says Gideon. She presses play and puts her own hand on Corona's ankle.

It makes Cam want to rest her hands on Cor, too, to slide them up Cor's belly to the breast that isn't currently pressed against Cam's rib cage. She very seriously considers sitting on her hands, but that would give everything away and make it weird. Instead, as the opening credits draw to a close, she finds Corona's uninjured hand and puts it between both of hers. Cor always manages to carry tension in her palms and her wrists, and if Cam has something to do with her hands, it means that she's not doing any of the dozen inappropriate things she can't stop thinking about. 

* * *

Cam gets home from dance on Wednesday, and Corona is conspicuously absent. She's astonished how quickly Cor has integrated into their family routines, how empty the couch seems with just Gideon on one end and Harrow on the other.

She heads upstairs, not wanting to disturb the scene of domestic tranquility that is Gideon playing a violent video game while Harrow ignores her in such a way that indicates that she has her full attention. In her room, she hangs the bag that holds her dance shoes on its hook, shakes her sweaty hair out of its half-ponytail, opens the door of her bathroom, and stops dead.

Cor reclines in the tub with her head back and her eyes shut. There's an empty wineglass resting on the side of the tub, and bubbles mound over the edge in a thick layer that manages to maintain decency while suggesting… well, everything.

Cam _knows_ the shape of Corona's body, has wanted her ever since the day they moved in, has apparently spent two years collecting observations that add up to an extremely vivid mental picture. (She doesn't know how long she's loved her, but that's immaterial: she knows she loves her now.) 

Cor cracks an eye open, and then moves to sit up. "Cam! You're home!" She sounds inappropriately delighted.

"Don't get up on my account," says Cam, hastily. She has ironclad self-control, but she doesn't know if it extends to keeping her hands to herself when presented with a naked and dripping Coronabeth Tridentarius. “You look comfortable. Can I get you anything?”

Cor looks her over. (Admittedly, Cam needs a shower. It’s not the appearance she would have chosen to present to Cor.) “If you get the bottle from the counter and another glass, you could join me.”

Cam thinks she manages to strangle the croak that threatens to escape. “I’ll rinse off and be right back.”

“I’m in your bathroom. I should get out and let you use it.” Cor makes like she’s going to get up again.

“It’s okay. Really. I’ll be right back.” She beats a hasty retreat, grabbing pyjamas and darting across the upstairs landing into the guest bathroom, and doesn’t wait for the water to warm up before stripping down and shoving her head under it. It clears out her overheated brain.

It’s not that she has regrets-- she offered Cor use of the bath, after all-- but everything is wrapped up in incredibly complicated feelings about seeing her hot neighbor naked in her bathtub with one hand primly held up and out of the foamy water. There are a dozen things Cam would rather do than politely avert her eyes and wait on Cor hand and foot. Things like kissing Corona senseless, like smoothing her hand over Corona’s shoulder and feeling the strong muscle under velvet soft skin that she’s watched Cor build in the gym over the past season. 

But she can’t have those things, so she towels off vigorously and pulls flannel over her damp skin, forgoes a top in favor of a sports bra in deference to the heat, and goes to fetch Cor’s wine.

It’s not hard to find; Cor’s left it breathing on the counter. Cam can’t even remember the last time they bought wine, because Cor regularly brings over a bottle or two, generous with her expertise as well as her other resources. She grabs the bottle and a wine glass and goes back upstairs. 

When she opens the bathroom door, Cor’s eyes rake shamelessly over her torso. Cam doesn’t know how to parse it. She knows the feeling from dozens of meaningless hookups, but she’s never felt the weight of Corona’s eyes on her body before. It’s heavy enough that she’ll choke on it if she thinks about it too much. “I brought the wine,” she says instead, and pours. The corner of the tub has a wide lip at Corona’s feet, and she folds a towel over it and perches, ready to stay for as long as Corona will have her.

“Thank you.” Cor’s mouth curls up, like Cam’s fulfilled her every wish. She still isn’t looking at the wine. 

* * *

“You really don’t have to help clean up.” It’s after dinner on Friday. Gideon cooked, which means the kitchen is already in pretty good order. Also, it was grilled cheese and tomato soup-- Gideon’s go-to whenever she’s had a long day-- so there isn’t an extensive mess. They just have to unload the dishwasher and then reload it with the plates and bowls and glasses. 

“It’s the least I can do,” says Corona, reaching up to put the plates away. She’s tall, Cam thinks absently, and there’s absolutely no reason she needs to stretch like that. “You’ve all been so good to me this week.”

Cam can’t find a way to argue with that. She watches as Corona opens the cabinet doors with her uninjured left hand and slides the plates in with her right.

It’s so much to have Corona next to her, standing hip-to-hip passing dishes in picture-perfect domesticity. It feels different than it feels when Cam’s dodging Gideon-- Corona’s a slower, more deliberate presence in the kitchen. The feelings multiply when Corona tries to help scrub out the pot, bandaged hand tucked carefully behind her back so she doesn’t soak the stitches. Water spills over the lip of the kitchen sink onto the lower half of her shirt, which _clings_.

“Stop that,” Cam says, chasing Cor away from the sink. “You’re going to get your stitches wet.”

Corona bites into her bottom lip. It could be a nervous gesture, but it could be something else entirely. Something that escalates Cam’s increasing desire to bring Cor upstairs and overwhelm her with pleasure. It’s Coronabeth Tridentarius, hedonist and flirt, and Cam has some alarmingly well-defined ideas about what it might take to satisfy her. Ideas that she would very much like to put to the test at some length.

There’s another thought that’s occurred to her, too. The faint stirring of memories distracted her so much that she’d looked it up at work in between client meetings. She thought she remembered the doctor saying that the stitches would dissolve in a week or two, and it’s been six days. There’s something Corona isn’t telling her, and there’s only one way to test her theory out.

“You can dry,” Cam says out loud, and tosses Cor a dry dishtowel.

Reflexively, Corona puts up her lightly-bandaged hand and catches it easily. Cam sets the pot aside-- there’s no pain on Cor’s face, and it’s the confirmation she needs. “You’re left-handed, aren’t you? I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”

Pink stains Corona’s cheeks, bright under her makeup. She swallows hard and does not move. Doesn’t answer, just stands there, her eyes fixed on Cam.

And Cam knows her from two years of barbecues and movie nights, two years of D&D and text messages and everything in between. She knows when Cor needs her to push. Cor needs her to push now.

“Coronabeth,” Cam says, “Were you faking an injury to get my attention?”

It jars a response from Cor. “It was a real injury,” she says, her breasts heaving with the shallowness of her breath. "It just healed a little more quickly than I may have let on. I just couldn't resist."

For once, Cam lets herself look, enjoy the rise and fall of Cor’s chest. “Coronabeth,” she says, stepping closer, “you know you always have my attention, right?”

She’s close enough now that she can hear Cor’s sharp inhale, a tiny sound of repressed longing that mirrors her own feelings. Her own heart pounds against her sternum, but she doesn’t let on as she continues to press forward until there’s a bare inch separating them and Cor will be able to feel the next question on her skin.

“Coronabeth,” Cam asks, “Can I kiss you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expanded title: "Red (Tomato sauce), Red (Blood), and more Red (Cam’s face when Cor starts laying it on heavy)"
> 
> Alternate chapter title: “Three times Corona wore progressively fewer clothes to catch Cam’s attention, and one time Cam threw a dish towel at her.”


	23. CamCor at Last: Butt Stuff Version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our friends skipping smut, you can resume reading at the end of the chapter, starting at "The next morning, Cam wakes up..."
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

Cor stands there, the dish towel caught in the hand that really isn’t injured anymore. She knows she’s been caught from the way Cam’s dark eyes go darker. Can feel it, in the pulse pounding in her wrists and at her throat. Wants to run, but finds she can’t move, not when Cam’s _looking_ at her like that.

"Coronabeth," says Cam, moving toward her with a captivating roll in her hips. "Were you faking an injury to get my attention?"

"It was a real injury," says Coronabeth, breathlessly, "It just healed a little more quickly than I may have let on. I just couldn't resist."

"Coronabeth," says Cam again, coming very close, "you know you always have my attention, right?"

The words queuing up in Corona's throat turn into a logjam. She hadn't known. She'd wanted it too much to allow herself to guess. Only Cam saying it out loud can make it real. She makes a terrible choking sound that gives everything away, everything that she's hidden for months and months and months.

"Coronabeth," says Cam, even closer, so that Cor can feel breath on her neck. "Can I kiss you?"

Corona can't speak. Her heart is beating too hard. Instead, she reaches out and finds the base of Cam's skull, where the hair's cut close to her hairline. It's a gentle touch, an invitation, and she makes it easy for Cam to pull away if she wants.

Instead, Cam moves in. "You can tell me to stop any time," she says, and kisses her. The sharply curved lips that have haunted Cor's dreams for months press against her mouth, sweet and wicked, and the reality blasts the fantasy into a thousand tiny pieces.

Corona's hands tighten on Cam's hair, on Cam's waist, but Cam pulls away after only a few moments, studying Cor as if she's a new research project. 

"Don't stop." Corona brings their lips together again, harder this time, and lets herself inhale Cam's scent. It's just kissing, but it's kissing with Cam crowding full-body against her, backing her up against the kitchen wall.

Cam’s hands find their way to Cor’s hips and rest there just under the waistband of her skirt. If Cam moved her hand inches higher, she could slip her hand under Cor’s shirt, could press skin on skin. But Cam is nothing if not chivalrous; she needs a little prompting. 

At the next meeting of lips, Cor lets out the softest of sounds and scrapes her teeth gently over Cam’s lower lip when they pull away again. “You can touch,” she breathes before she’s busied again. 

Cam’s grip tightens before she’s finally pushing up. “This okay?”

Cor hums affirmatively. Cam’s hands aren’t as calloused as Gideon’s are, but there’s a roughness to her palms Cor relishes when they caress her skin. It’s so much more than she could have hoped for, filled with details she couldn’t have even conceived of in the safety of her own bedroom, and she’s content to stand here and lose herself to Cam’s lips. 

As first kisses go, it’s spectacular. Cor wills it to be enough, in case it stops here, in case this is the full extent of Cam’s regard for her. It doesn’t stop her from wanting more.

"We should go upstairs before Gideon comes back inside," says Cam, eventually.

"Good idea," says Cor, and she trails Cam up the stairs, bewildered and aroused with swollen lips.

Like the very first time she’d been invited to Cam’s room, she’s not entirely sure if it’s an invitation. But-- after kisses like that-- she has high hopes.

Cam confirms them a moment later. “Can you give me a minute?” she asks, heading toward the bathroom. “Feel free to slip into something more comfortable.”

That’s a come-on if Cor has ever heard one, and also the best idea she's heard all day. She strips off her work clothes, pencil skirt and blouse, and since Cam's taking her time in the bathroom, she folds them and sandwiches her underwear discreetly in the middle of the pile. Then she stretches out, full-length and naked on Cam's bed. It feels impossibly forward, but also right. The pillows smell like Cam, the sheets smell like Cam, and it's so easy to lean back, close her eyes, and relax into the scent of the woman she loves. (She's never let herself even think those words. But that was before Cam kissed her.)

"Oh, hello," says Cam, emerging from the bathroom. She sounds surprised, which is not at all the tone Cor had hoped for. 

She opens her eyes and props herself up on her elbows and sees--

Cam is dressed in pyjamas, the usual flannel bottoms and soft top she usually wears to movie nights.

Only then does Corona remember that she has pyjamas of her own, tucked in her own section of one of Cam's drawers, and she realizes she's misread the situation terribly. Again. "I'm so sorry," she says, levering herself so she can fold her arms and knees up to hide her breasts. "I thought-- I didn't mean-- I'll just--"

"Oh, I think you meant to," says Cam, a reprimand threaded dangerously through her tone, like a single vial of poison hidden on a liquor shelf. "Just like you meant to lie to me about how injured your hand was. Get back down on that bed."

Corona's core clenches and she lies back down as Cam approaches. The mattress shifts as Cam takes a seat scant inches away. "Do you want to have sex?"

As if that's a question. "Cam--"

"Don't lie to me, Coronabeth," says Cam. "And don't evade. I want your honesty."

It's like Cam has broken in through her rib cage and pulled out every truth that Cor has ever hidden from her. "I have _always_ wanted to have sex with you," says Coronabeth, "ever since the day you moved in." Cam is watching her like a snake, and Corona is transfixed in her predator's eyes. "But I don't just want sex, not anymore. I want you, Camilla Hect, I want your friendship and your attention and--" she has to swallow hard to get the words out-- "your love."

"God, Cor," says Cam, "you have all of that. You've had all of that for months."

The words bloom into Corona’s chest, something colorful and warm that entirely overwhelms her ability to speak. They could have been doing this for months. They can be doing this now. "Then-- can I touch you?"

"You can _always_ touch me," says Cam, pulling off her top in a seamless motion, revealing her treasure trail, followed by her breasts. This is the stuff of Corona's fantasies, and she can't believe it's real, the sheer intensity of the look in Cam's eyes threatening to paralyze her.

"Come here," says Corona, falling back on the familiar. "I'm going to rub your shoulders."

It's a shame when Cam spreads out prone on the bed, but without the immediate visual presence of the hair on Cam's belly, Cor can at least think again. She swings a leg over Cam's thighs and reaches out, the same way she has at dozens of movie nights, and finds out that the act is entirely different now that Cam's topless under her.

She's not nearly as tense as she usually is, and Corona lets herself work down Cam's spine as Cam makes humming noises of pleasure. Cam's hips work under her, pressing their legs together. It's hot as hell, and Corona ignores the slickness she can feel gathering, because there's someone far more important now.

Cam's making The Noises, and this time, at last, Corona doesn't have to stop, can keep working the tension out of Cam's muscles until she turns into a puddle under her, limp on her bed with her face mashed into the pillow.

Cor loves it, doesn't want it to stop, wants to put her hands on every muscle Cam has because Cor had never seen Cam this languid and she's desperate to know how much further it goes. She pauses with her fingers at the elastic waist of Cam's pyjama bottoms and asks-- "Is this okay?"

"God, Cor, yes," says Cam, and she sounds blissed-out, absolutely, and Cor cannot get enough of this. She drags the pyjama bottoms down, and it's the first time she's been able to enjoy the unrestricted sight of Cam's legs, long and brown against the bedspread. While she itches to get her hands on Cam's thighs, she also wants to savor this moment, and she takes herself down the bed, kneeling with her hands on Cam's ankles, and begins to work on Cam's calves.

"You tease," says Cam, but it falls short of a complaint.

"I've waited forever for this," says Corona, kneading out the knots below Cam's knees. "I want to take my time."

"I can be patient." And isn't that the truth, because Cam stays flat on the bed even as Cor works her way up, her knees outside Cam's, pressing her palms against the smooth, strong muscles on the outside of Cam's thighs. She can tell what kind of effect she's having from the way Cam's hips press into the bed, from the noises Cam won't stop making, from the way the muscles tense and then relax as she makes her way to the inside of Cam's thighs.

She has to take several deep, steadying breaths as she moves her hands up to rest on Cam's gorgeous ass. It gives under her palms, and there's no tension held here that Cor needs to work free, just the sheer unbridled pleasure of touching and feeling Cam begin to squirm under her.

She runs her thumbs along the crease under Cam's butt, presses in along the seam, and finds out that Cam's wet too, down to her thighs. It should spur her on to greater heights-- she's dreamed about this, brought herself off thinking of massaging Cam's thighs until they part under her hands more times than she can count. The fantasy is just like this new reality, so close that Cor suddenly realizes that, for all the times she's thought of Cam while she's alone and naked in the safety of her bedroom, she's only ever allowed herself bare snippets. She doesn't know what comes next, because there are too many things she has wanted to do for too long. She hesitates, and hesitates for too long, because Cam twists under her until she's on her back, smiling up at her.

Cor's hands go unerringly to Cam's belly, and she gets to feel that fuzzy line that's haunted her for months under her palm before Cam catches her arm and holds it still. "Don't think I don't like that," she says, "but are you okay?"

And Cor doesn't quite know how to answer that, but the only thing Cam has asked for is her honesty, and she's going to do her very best. She holds up a hand, and Cam gives her the time to think, rubbing soothing circles over Cor's wrists and forearms even as she holds her hands trapped. "I'm overwhelmed," she says at last. "I want you so much, I want so many things, I don't know what I want next."

Cam raises an eyebrow. "Do you want me to decide for you?"

Cor is helpless in the face of the look Cam's giving her, the best one yet in a day full of good looks from Cam. " _Please_ ," she says, and that's enough to set Cam into motion, shifting upright within the cage of Cor's thighs so that she's sitting in front of her, and it's suddenly an entirely different position with Corona spread out over Cam’s lap. Automatically, Cor grabs for Cam's shoulders, remembers herself, and hastily lets go.

"No, hold onto me," says Cam, guiding Cor's hands back. "You're going to need the support."

She's right, because Cor is half gone even before Cam bumps her knees further apart. Her fingers trail up Corona's inner thigh to where she's drenched and desperate. Cor is so close it takes almost nothing, the barest pressure of Cam parting her folds, to bring her to the very edge, and when Cam slides two fingers experimentally inside her, Cor loses it entirely and tips over, grinding down hard onto Cam's hand and digging her fingers into Cam's shoulders so she doesn't collapse completely.

"I'm sorry," says Corona, once the trembling stops.

"Do not _ever_ be sorry for that." Cam licks her lips. "I love that. That was glorious. Can you go again?"

"As many times as you like," says Cor, hopelessly honest in the aftermath. Cam still has fingers inside her, and she's moving them slightly, and Cor can already feel it building again.

"Good, because I'm not done with you.” Cam moves her fingers again-- Cor cries out-- and then she withdraws them. "Are toys okay?"

"Anything you want," says Cor, still feeling dazed. She turns to see Cam rummaging in a drawer, coming back with something from the rabbit vibe family, but with an additional articulated end that Cor finds extremely intriguing. She's paired it up with lube and a towel. The preparation is so quintessentially Cam it hurts.

“I know it’s a lot.” Cam brings it over and hands it to Cor, letting her touch the silicone, get a feel for the weight and the material. “But I’d like my hands free to touch you. We don’t have to use it, or we can use something different.”

“You’ve been thinking about this.”

“For a few days.” She takes the toy back. “Haven’t you?”

“Not like this exactly,” says Cor. Her body has gone hot and tingly in anticipation. "I was never sure you wanted me."

"Oh, I want you." says Cam. "You're gorgeous. You know that."

"I look good, but I'm not anything else," says Corona. "I haven't even gotten you off."

"Cor--" begins Cam, and then she stops. "We'll get there, but I'm not done touching you yet. You're so much more than gorgeous. Lie back for me, darling."

Corona swings off Cam's lap and lies back on the bed. The endearment plants flowers that grow in her abdomen, filling her belly and chest with rustling petals.

"Thank you," says Cam. "You're so good for me."

"I didn't do anything."

"Shhhhhh." Cam smooths a curl away from Corona's forehead, impossibly gentle. "You're indulging me. Thank you."

Corona wants to argue, but Cam leans in for a kiss, and it helps take her out of her head. Now that it's not so desperately new, she can enjoy it, the way Cam nips at her bottom lip and then soothes it with a swipe of her tongue. She can feel herself melting back into the mattress, spreading out and open.

Cam works herself down Cor’s body until she’s kneeling between Cor’s knees.

"You know, I thought you'd be blonde here, too," says Cam, cupping Corona where she's waxed bare. 

"I am, if I let it grow."

"Would you?" Cam hesitates. "I mean, if you want to."

"I'll think about it." Corona knows she's absolutely in no fit state to make promises, not when she's barely able to avoid rocking into Cam's palm. But she also knows that there's very little she wouldn't do to make Cam happy.

"Thank you," says Cam, as she scoots the rest of the way down the bed so that she can comfortably press a kiss to Corona's thigh. It’s not a surprise when Cam’s breath brushes over her. When Cam puts her mouth on her cunt, it feels like coming home, like every missing jagged piece that has been cutting into Corona for too long finally falls into alignment.

It turns out that Cam makes the same appreciative sound when Cor presses up into her mouth that she does when she takes the first sip of a really good wine Cor's chosen for her. 

Corona thinks it can’t get any better, and then Cam slides her fingers inside her.

And the thing is, Cor knows Cam is ambidextrous, but knowing doesn't prepare her for Cam to reach for the lube with her off-hand, the one that's not knuckles-deep inside her, for her to slide that hand over the curve of Cor's ass and part her cheeks to find her already wet everywhere, because Corona has been _dripping_. She still takes her time, of course, two fingers massaging over her until she relaxes, before she snaps the cap off the lube bottle.

"Is this okay?" Cam asks. "I know it's a lot, and we have all the time in the world if you want to wait, but I want you, and I want all of you, and I want it now."

Cor doesn't want to rear up-- she fights hard to keep her hips steady-- but her voice breaks. "God-- Cam-- _please--_ "

and that's apparently all the encouragement Cam needs to press in a little bit harder with both hands, and Corona opens under her.

She comes again when Cam slides a lube-slick finger inside her ass, the orgasm like an afterthought when measured against the mounting onslaught of pleasure. Cam actually snarls, the sound pressed like a tongue against Corona's clit, pauses long enough to say "God, you like this," and puts her mouth back before Corona can answer.

Corona's 'yes' gets buried in a landslide of incoherent babble, comes garnished with 'please' and 'Cam' when it emerges misordered from the gaps in the rubble. Cam’s working her deliberately, slicking lube inside her until both hands slide without resistance. 

Then she picks up the toy. Cam curls the fingers in Cor's cunt lazily as she works it into Cor's ass, keeping Cor pinned by pleasure on the sheets beneath her, building something enormous that threatens to shatter Cor into pieces.

Cam folds the articulated end, and there's no resistance as the other end slides into her cunt and the rabbit rests over her clit. She rocks back on her heels, wiping her hands off on the towel. "Hey, gorgeous, how are you doing?"

"Fucking--" begins Corona, before she tries again. "Why did you stop?"

"Because lube tastes awful, and I'm not even close to done with you. Is it okay if I go wash my hands? I'm not going to leave you. I'll be right over there."

Corona can't really argue with that, even if she wants to. The arousal is beginning to settle over her skin like a mountain of sugar being shaken to form an even layer on the bottom of a pan, distributing itself to the obscure corners of her body. "Come back soon?"

"I can't wait to get my hands on you." Cam flashes her a smile that makes Cor's blood rise further.

The water turns on in the bathroom, but suddenly a distraction presents itself as the toy starts vibrating, sensation radiating from her center out, spreading out to encompass her entire cunt, the pleasure soaking through the fibres of her muscles in her thighs and her core. Cam has a remote control, Corona thinks wonderingly, before she stops thinking at all.

It can't be long before the toy shuts off again and Cam walks out of the bathroom, wiping her hands off with a towel. It's still long enough to reduce Corona to a whimpering mess, though, close and on edge and rocking her hips against the mattress.

"Still doing okay?" asks Cam, with a sharp curve to her smile that makes Corona want to bite. 

"I will be if you _come over here and touch me_." 

Cam doesn't seem to mind her impatience, because she returns to the bed and straddles Cor's hips, which is not exactly what Cor had in mind, but she'll take it anyway, because Cam sets the remote control down on the bed and slides her hands up Corona's rib cage. "How do you like your breasts touched?"

Corona can't help but rise up on her shoulder blades to show them off at their best advantage. "Right now, rough," she says, because Cam has done such a good job of working her up. "It varies." Corona knows from her past partners that some people just grab, because they're big and decorative. Sometimes it works and sometimes it just _hurts_ , and occasionally a lover gets angry when the touch that had worked so well last time after twenty minutes of foreplay results in an angry hiss when dropped on Cor out of nowhere. It's so like Cam to ask, and Cor wants to honor that, wants her to understand, wants her to care.

Some of that must show on her face, because Cam says, "oh, _darling_ ," before gathering up overflowing handfuls and being gentle anyway.

"Cam, please," says Corona, the third time Cam brushes just the tip of her nose over a nipple, and Cam gives her a wicked smile and presses the button on the remote control. It's low, this time, just enough to make Corona squirm between Cam's thighs.

"Cam," Corona says again, this time in a whine. "Please."

"It's so nice to see you like this," says Cam. "You're being so good." And then she finally, _finally_ bends her head. Her teeth sink into the side of Cor's breast and she sucks, her thumbs on Cor's nipples. Too soon, she lets go. She rubs a thumb over the mark that’s left behind. “I should’ve asked before I did that.”

Corona admires the blooming bruise, the proof on her body that this is real, something tangible she can refer to when the doubts threaten to overtake her. “Do it again.”

“You’ve got work on Monday,” points out Cam. “I should probably be discreet.”

“If you want,” says Cor, tipping her chin back. “ _I_ don’t care.” (Also, she knows how to use concealer, but that’s not the point here.)

"As you like it," says Cam, with that smile again. Cor's learning what it means, and she's barely able to brace before Cam turns the toy up to medium. This time Cor doesn't care that her hips come off of the bed, chasing the deep penetration that remains firmly out of her grasp.

By the time Cam bumps the toy back down to low, Corona is vibrating and incoherent. There's a wet spot on her belly, where Cam's sitting, and it's absolutely maddening. She reaches out and grabs the curve of Cam's hips, tugs on them. She wants to be able to touch, too, especially when she's like this, so hot that the world blurs around the edges. 

"Impatient," Cam says. "But you've been so good for me."

Cor wants to say that she hasn't been, that she hasn't done anything, that the entire encounter has just been Cam indulging _her_ , but she can't make words happen. Anyway, Cam's moving with her lithe dancer's grace up the bed and suddenly Cor has something much better than talking to do with her mouth. It's so easy to reach up and grab Cam's thighs, and all of a sudden it doesn't matter how ridiculously close she is, or if she's coming, because there's the scent and taste and feel of Cam enveloping her senses, under her hands and over her mouth and nose, strong thighs working as she adjusts the angle perfectly, showing Cor exactly what she likes. Her arousal coats Cor's tongue and her cheeks. 

Cor digs her fingernails into Cam's lower back, right where she likes to be rubbed, and Cam arches and makes the most glorious noise Coronabeth has ever heard in her life. The backrub noises pale in comparison.

Grabbing the scrollwork on the headboard of the bed, Cam begins to move. Corona can’t take the sight of this, not on top of everything else. She closes her eyes, loses track of everything except the roll and swell of the curve of Cam’s back under her nails. She wants to give Cam everything she can, because Cam has already given her so much this evening alone. 

And, astonishingly, it’s working. Cam’s crying out above her, making choked-off moans of pleasure as she rocks her hips. Somehow-- Cor has no idea _how_ \-- Cam has the presence of mind to play with the settings on her remote control, and every time she turns it up, Cor thrashes below her, so that her hair sticks to her cheeks and she can feel just how well she’s pinned under Cam. She’s making noises of her own, muffled in Cam’s sensitive flesh, because it’s so _much_ and she loves every last inch of it.

When Cam takes herself away from Corona’s mouth, Corona doesn’t want to let go. Cam has to gently remove her fingers from where they’re making indentations into her hips.

“Did you--” Cor asks. Her voice feels raspy. “Was it good?”

Cam traces Cor’s lower lip with the pad of her thumb. “So good. You’re marvellous. How are you doing?”

“So good,” Cor says. It really has been. She can’t count how many times she came. She has no right to feel disappointed that Cam’s clicking the remote control, that the toy turns off. If her hips are still rocking on the bed, just a little, it’ll wear off soon enough. Almost certainly. Well, maybe, if Cam weren’t right over there, naked on the bed next to her.

Corona has always wanted too much.

Unfortunately, Cam reads her like she’s put up a highway sign. "You need a little more, don't you?" Her eyes are half-lidded with satisfaction. 

Really, Cor would content herself with rolling over and just snuggling, just holding Cam close, but her hips betray her again, working against the mattress. "I wouldn't mind," she admits.

Cam stirs. "Show me how you touch yourself?"

Cor reaches down and dislodges the toy so she can reach her clit. She's overstimulated and sensitive, so she has to approach carefully, but, _oh_ , there it is, there’s the rhythm that will bring her off under Cam’s satiated gaze.

She closes her eyes, just for a moment, to focus herself. When she opens them, Cam’s watching her, openly speculating, propped up on an elbow close enough that Cor can’t believe she doesn’t feel her breath on her shoulder. 

"Want fingers?" Cam asks.

That is an amazing damn idea, and Corona says as much. Cam’s laugh washes over her in the haze of lust, and, combined with Cam’s fingers, it’s the last gentle push over the precipice of pleasure that Cor’s been looking for. Cam works her through it-- she has no idea how long it lasts, maybe minutes-- and then she’s sweat-damp and breathing hard in Cam’s bed, trying to figure out how to convince her brain that this is real.

Cam’s helping, smoothing damp hair away from her forehead. “Good?” she asks.

“Unbelievable,” says Corona. There should be more words to describe it, but she can’t think and she can’t move.

“I’m going to take the toy away now,” says Cam. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” says Corona, breathing in hard to brace. It still makes her tremble as Cam pulls it free, the dregs of the encounter clinging to the nooks and crannies of her body and wringing the last drops of response from her. She slumps bonelessly onto her back when it’s over.

Cam lays the toy aside, wrapping it in the towel, and snuggles in close. “Guessing you’re not ready to move yet.”

“Maybe next week,” says Corona, curling her arm around Cam’s back. “God, you’re good at that.”

Nuzzling the crook of her neck, Cam laughs. “You’re so responsive. I love it.” And then, more seriously-- “I love you.”

“God, Cam.” Cor smiles, and it feels watery and inadequate after what they’ve just done together. “I’ve loved you for months.” 

Eventually, Cam says, “We should probably shower.”

“Mmmmm,” Corona agrees. Her eyelids droop. There’s sweat drying in the crooks of her elbows and her knees, and she really needs to wash her face, but she’s also comfortable. Cam’s head lies heavy on her shoulder.

* * *

The next morning, Cam wakes up to find a mass of golden blonde hair lying on the pillow next to her. 

“Good morning,” says Corona, looking sleep-rumpled but no less glorious for it. “I turned off your alarm. You looked like you needed the sleep.”

It’s Saturday. It doesn’t matter that she’s slept in; the only thing she’ll be late for is their workout with Gideon. She stretches and savors the faint noise of appreciation Corona makes when the sheet falls away. “Mmmmm. I also need a shower. We never got there last night.”

Corona smiles at her. “Can I join you?”

* * *

Cor certainly doesn’t make it easy, but some time later, they change into workout gear and make their way downstairs. The scent of breakfast sausage and maple syrup pervades the air. Gideon is in the kitchen, half-dressed and making waffles.

“It’ll be a few more minutes before the first batch is out,” says Gideon. There’s flour smudged on her cheek and, somehow, across her collarbone. “There’s melon on the kitchen table.”

Also at the table, less usual but still within normal parameters, sits Harrow, a bowl of fruit at her elbow and a book in her hands. “Good morning,” she says, turning a page without batting an eyelash.

Corona takes a seat and helps herself. She unfurls her hand, palm up, on the wood. Tentative and hopeful. 

Cam can’t deny them this. Doesn’t want to deny them this, doesn’t _have_ to deny them this, she realizes, with rising joy. She takes Corona’s hand and rubs her thumb over Cor’s knuckles while they wait. It doesn’t take long.

Gideon plunks a pair of waffles down in front of Corona and Cam, even though Harrow was there first. She knows who needs the food. “So you two had fun last night,” she says, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Oh, leave them alone, Griddle.” Absently, Harrow eats a bite of melon. “I’m happy for both of you.”

Cor drenches her waffle in syrup and groans a little. Cam spreads hers with peanut butter and studies Harrow. She still can’t read Harrow’s microexpressions the way Gideon can, but even she can detect a hint of a rare and precious smile.

She squeezes Cor’s hand. She’s happy for them, too.


	24. Debrief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! There's only seven days left to Harrow the Ninth, and that means that, in order to meet our goal of finishing by the time Harrow comes out, we'll be posting a chapter a day. It's almost all written. Wish us luck. 
> 
> (The total number of chapters went up again. Oops.)
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

“I’m sorry,” says Cam on a Monday halfway through September, apropos of absolutely nothing Gideon can discern.

Still, it’s a good time to talk, a rare evening where it’s just the two of them. Corona’s out for dinner with Ianthe, and Harrow’s working late. Meatball snuffs in the corner, napping in his dog bed. Gideon saves her game and gives Cam her full attention. “What for?”

“When Corona got hurt, I took it out on you.” Cam’s words have the careful diction of her lawyer voice, like she’d written the apology out and then practiced it in front of her mirror. “I was scared, and that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

“I was scared, too,” says Gideon. “She’s important to all of us.”

Cam smiles her new smile, her small, secret smile. “But you didn’t shout at me because of it.”

“Everyone handles stress differently,” says Gideon. “Thank you for thinking of it, but honestly, I’d already forgotten.”

“I haven’t,” says Cam, very earnestly. “Gideon, you’re important, too.”

And Gideon has missed this one-on-one time with Cam, now that Harrow is there six nights of seven, and Corona is there two nights out of four. “But you’re happy with her,” Gideon says, because it’s true. “Happier than you ever were with me.”

Cam gives her a weird look. “We never dated,” she says. “I think you’ve been in love with Harrow for as long as I’ve known you.”

Gideon fidgets with her controller, wishing she had the game for a distraction if they’re going to talk about this, because it’s far too close to the truth. “We could have dated.” She hadn’t thought of it before the words came out of her mouth, and it’s bittersweet. Dating Harrow consumes her, but it doesn’t completely eclipse the vague feeling that, if everything were different, she could have been great with Cam, too. 

“We didn’t, though,” says Cam, after a silence that lasts too long. 

Gideon blinks and rubs at her eyes a little with the hand not holding the controller. She’s not entirely sure she’s in the right place to have this conversation, but she wants an answer to this question. “Do you wish we did?”

Cam looks at the paused game screen, thinking. The blue of the screen on her profile casts shadows over the jawline Gideon has always admired. “I don’t know,” she says finally.

Gideon nods. It’s good enough of an answer for her. “Okay. Anything else?”

Cam silently shakes her head, eyes unfocused in the way they always get when Cam starts thinking. 

Shrugging, Gideon unpauses the game. Harrow will be home soon, and Cam knows how to use her words if she wants to. 

* * *

Cam stretches out on Corona’s sheets, naked and sated. They usually spend the night in the middle house, but Ianthe is on a business trip, and anyway, she suspects Gideon and Harrow won’t mind the space. Gideon used to tease Cam about being loud during sex, but since Harrow’s started spending the night, Cam’s learned that Gideon isn’t quiet either. Sometimes, when the door isn’t quite shut properly, she’ll hear Harrow tell Gideon that she needs to be _quiet_. For some reason, those are always the evenings Gideon is loudest.

(Neither Gideon nor Harrow have ever complained about Corona, who absolutely _screams_ when given the right provocation. Cam has used the time they have together alone in the Tridentarius house to explore that.)

But she needs to stop thinking about the sex, because they’re meant to go out apple-picking today. That’s why Cor is in the shower without her: because Cam is looking forward to enjoying her girlfriend’s fall outfits, and that means they need to keep their hands to themselves for long enough to get out the door, where the temptation will be slightly lower.

It’s so good. The sex, the intimacy, the knowledge that Cor is thinking of her. She rolls over, trying to make herself sit up so that when Cor comes out she can shower herself. The thread count on Cor’s sheets is addictive. Cor has threatened to replace all of Cam’s sheets, and after a few nights in Cor’s bed, Cam is seriously considering giving in. 

As she moves, something rustles under Cor’s pillow. Curious, Cam pulls out a piece of paper, written in Cor’s big, perfectly-formed looping handwriting. It’s not long. She’s read it before she realizes that perhaps she shouldn’t have.

> _squeeze her hand: twice per day._
> 
> _hugs: for greetings and goodbyes only. Exception: when she cries, you can hold her until she stops_
> 
> _rub her shoulders: once a fortnight, unless she specifically asks. make it count. ignore the way her chin tips back in pleasure when she relaxes. stop when she starts making The Noises._
> 
> _treasure trail: entirely forbidden. don’t even_ look _at it._

It could be about anyone. Anyone who Cor has held through their tears, whose shoulders Cor rubs slightly more than once every two weeks, who has a treasure trail. Cam can’t pretend with herself about it.

She sits up on the edge of the bed and stares at the paper.

She’s still sitting there when Cor emerges from the bathroom, wet hair bound up in a towel. “Cam?” Cor asks, and then sees what Cam’s clutching. “Oh. I should probably explain.”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” says Cam, and then immediately makes a lie of it by asking anyway. “ _Why_?”

“I had to,” says Cor. “You were always touching me, and I kept wanting to make it into something it wasn’t.”

Cam has no words to say to that. All she can do is reach out with both hands and hold onto Cor’s.

Corona clutches back. “You were with _Palamedes_ ,” she says. “And then, by the time you broke up-- I cared too much. I didn’t want to be your rebound.”

“You’re not. I promise. You’re everything.”

Cor gives her a watery smile. “I didn’t know.”

It’s heartbreakingly true. Cam can see it on Cor’s face. Cam _needs_ her to know, needs to show her. Her words aren’t working, but her hands will do well enough. The corners of Cor’s eyes crinkle when she pulls the damp towel away. “You can touch me any time you like,” says Cam. “I love it when you touch me. I have _always_ loved it when you touch me.”

Cor laughs, darting out of the range of Cam’s hands to sprawl provocatively over the sheets. “I thought we were going apple picking.” It’s a blatant challenge for Cam to follow her.

“Fuck it,” says Cam. “There will still be apples tomorrow.”

* * *

Palamedes touches Cam’s shoulder after D&D. The session went well; they’ve finally begun to settle into their new characters and it’s so different from their first campaign, but the different is good, it’s fun. The touch is achingly familiar and Cam follows him into the kitchen. She has to pack up the snack dragon anyway.

Palamedes waits until they’re both in the kitchen before he speaks.“You’re dating Corona now,” he says, leaning back against the counter. “I’m glad for both of you.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Cam can see the worry in his face, and she should know this, should know what he’s thinking. “But?” she asks.

“Should I take that to mean that you don’t want to fuck me anymore?” There’s no emotion behind the words, just a logistical question, and Cam feels the impact in her solar plexus. It winds her more than she could have ever expected.

She hadn’t thought about it, and she should have. Should never have made Palamedes ask. “Let me talk to her,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Palamedes. He takes his glasses off and wipes them clean on the bottom of his shirt, and then puts them back on his nose. They slide down. The corner of his lips curl into a smile. “Be happy.”

* * *

Cam worries at it for the next three days, rehearsing the conversation in her head a thousand ways. In the end, it just slips out.

They’re laying in bed, and Cam’s got her fingers in Corona’s curls, rubbing at the base of her neck to make her eyes go half-mast with contentment. Their legs are tangled together along with disturbed sheets that glide over their bare skin. A gentle breeze comes in from the window past billowing drapes and it’s so idyllic. Everything is comfortable, is perfect, and Cam’s thoughts drown out the peaceful silence until she finally blurts out the words that have been on her mind. “Do you care if I fuck Palamedes?”

Cor doesn’t move, but her eyes do open again, flickering from Cam’s eyes to her collarbone and then back. They’re a piercing purple in this light and do nothing to help the air that’s escaped Cam’s lungs entirely. Cam swears internally. 

“What does that mean for me?” Cor asks.

“Nothing,” says Cam, and then amends it. “About once a month, I’ve been going over to his place. So I wouldn’t be around that evening.”

Corona reaches for Cam’s wrist, catching it beside her head. Her grip is loose but fingertips dig into Cam’s skin right where her pulse thrums. “You’ll still love me?”

It presses all the breath out of her chest again. “Cor--”

Corona lets go of her wrist, untangles their legs, and sits up, crossing her legs on the mattress so that she can face Cam, all the laughter gone from her face.

The force of Corona’s regard draws Cam up onto her elbows, and she lifts an eyebrow at the change of pace. It’s an invitational gesture, giving Corona space to speak.

Corona reaches out to brush her fingertips down the inside of Cam’s arm. “You’ve always loved him. Even after you broke up, you never stopped loving him.”

It’s all true. Cam hangs her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Because you have a big heart?” asks Cor. “Don’t be. Just answer the question. Will you come back to _me_ ? Will you keep loving _me_?”

“Cor--” Cam’s voice cracks. “Cor, darling. Of course I will.”

“Then nothing’s changed.” Cor’s mouth tilts, and she rises onto her knees, pushing on Cam’s shoulders until Cam falls backward onto the bed. “I’ve read about this kind of thing, you know. And as long as I’m happy, and you’re happy, and he’s happy, I don’t see the problem.” 

“I’ll do some reading, too.” It’s hard to think with Cor leaning over her. “Anything you need to make this work.”

Cor’s teeth flash. “I can work with that.”

Cam’s spine arches reflexively.

* * *

It’s possible Corona overstated how easy it would be to send her girlfriend off to fuck their neighbor. But that’s Corona’s problem, not Cam’s. Her house feels lonely and the rooms empty, even with Ianthe reading in the parlour. There’s a hollow where Cam’s carved space in Corona’s life and its vacancy makes itself well known without Cam always within arms reach. Realistically, a few hours without Cam isn’t the end of the world.

“I’m going next door,” Cor says.

“Of course you are,” says Ianthe. “Don’t forget to feed the goat.”

As if Ianthe actually cares about Iago.

* * *

Harrow opens the patio door when Corona knocks. “Corona,” she says, eyes darting out to the house she shares with Palamedes. “Cam’s not here.”

“I know,” says Corona. She’s still trying not to think about it too much. “Do you care if I hang out anyway?”

Harrow’s expression softens. “We’re just watching a movie,” she says. “Come on in.”

In the living room, Gideon’s sitting on the floor in front of her usual seat. Harrow sits behind her, legs falling on either side of her shoulders, and Gideon pillows her head on Harrow’s thigh. Harrow absentmindedly strokes the fine hairs at the base of Gideon’s neck. (Gideon’s haircuts have gotten a lot better since she’s started dating Harrow. Corona suspects that Harrow has taken to cutting Gideon’s hair herself.)

She can spot the dog bed by the corner of the room, but the pitbull is nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Meatball?”

“The nook,” says Gideon. “He’s taken to napping there.”

The conversation feels domestic and sweet, and Gideon starts the movie. It’s strange to have so much space on the sofa. To be able to take up all the space she wants without touching anyone, without getting in anyone’s way. To get to see the quiet intimacy between two of her best friends.

Corona doesn’t make note of the subtle tension between Harrow and Gideon until halfway through the movie when Gideon pauses to stretch. She disappears around the corner into the kitchen, making an excuse Corona only hears fragments of, and Harrow follows her wordlessly. It leaves Corona alone to scroll through her phone. She answers a few work emails while she’s at it and tries not to fidget. The sounds of activity in the kitchen help with the knot in her stomach and she resolves to ignore it. 

They come back fifteen minutes later with flushed cheeks (Gideon) and a smug expression (Harrow). Corona averts her eyes and makes a show of stretching, attempting to provide them a modicum of privacy. Reluctantly, she decides she shouldn’t ask, which is terrible, because she suddenly and desperately wants to know what just happened between them. But it’s not her place to ask. She’s not with them and what they choose to do within the confines of their house-- within the confines of their relationship-- is not hers to pry into. It doesn’t stop her from wanting to know.

It must be her recent conversation with Cam about polyamory. This version of Harrow-- still aloof and prickly, but confident with it-- intrigues Corona. Now, after they’ve been playing D&D together for eighteen months, Harrow lets the occasional flashes of softness escape from her defenses. There’s something else there, too, something warm that Corona finds fascinating, something that Corona has never looked past Cam to see, but that in retrospect has always been there. A puzzle piece slides into place in her head, about things she wants and about things that, maybe, if she's very careful, she might be able to have.

She asks right before Gideon can press play on the movie again, before she can lose her nerve. “Harrow, can I rub your shoulders?”

On the other end of the sofa, Harrow stiffens.

Gideon perks up immediately and cuts in, seemingly oblivious. “If she doesn’t want a shoulder rub and you’re offering…”

“Let her think. She carries a lot more tension than you do.” The snap in her own voice surprises Corona.

On the floor, Gideon goes still and quiet, her head on Harrow’s thigh again. Everything in her posture suggests an apology. 

At last, Harrow shifts on the sofa. “Up,” she says to Gideon, and Gideon stands, awkward, stretching out her stiff muscles. Harrow begins unbuttoning her vest, putting it in a heap on the coffee table with a _thunk_.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” asks Cor. She draws her legs apart and pats the space between them for Harrow to sit, so she can reach.

“If I don’t like it, I _will_ tell you to stop.” But she sits in the cradle of Corona’s thighs, bolt upright but close enough for Corona to reach out and press her thumbs into the meat of Harrow’s shoulders.

As expected, she needs to use a much lighter touch with Harrow, but there’s muscle here too, not just bone, covered up in button-downs and vests and blazers and, occasionally, even a tie.

“Sit down and play the movie, Griddle,” says Harrow, her eyes fluttering shut.

* * *

By the end of the movie, Harrow has melted over Corona’s lap, both her feet and Cor’s splayed across Gideon’s thighs. The tension she carried in her shoulders is long gone, eased out by long fingers and careful touches.

As the credits roll, Gideon catches Cor’s eyes over Harrow’s head, which is tilted back onto Cor’s shoulder. She raises her eyebrows and gives Cor a knowing look.

“I just wanted to do something nice for her,” Corona whispers, trying not to disturb Harrow, whose eyes are closed, who might or might not be asleep.

“I’m sure,” says Gideon, but she’s smiling as she scoops up her girlfriend and carries her upstairs.

Cor thinks about going home, but it’s late and she’s tired and she has clothes in the spare room anyway. She tucks herself into Cam’s empty bed and buries herself in the pine-and-bergamot smell of Cam’s pillow.

* * *

The next morning, she wakes up because Cam’s kissing her. It’s an amazing way to wake up and Corona stores it in her head for later. 

She hums her pleasure and sits up when Cam lets go. “Good morning.”

“I hope you weren't waiting up for me,” says Cam. "I just got in." Even in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, Cam looks like a dream, silhouetted by the morning light streaming in through the window.

“I just got sleepy," says Corona. "And the bed smells like you."

Cam’s smile is so soft it makes Corona’s chest hurt and she presses a kiss to Corona’s forehead. "I have to go to work," she says, "but if I didn't, I would do such things to you."

Corona shivers. "Later?" she suggests.

Cam’s eyes close for a moment and when they open again, her dark brown eyes are full of warmth and promise. “Later.”

* * *

They're lying in bed that evening. Corona feels smug and sleepy. If she stays over, it'll be the second night in a row she's slept here, but who could blame her when there are benefits like movie nights and the best sex she's ever had in her life? "Do you ever think about them?" she asks, as Cam plays with her hair.

"Who?”

It probably would be helpful to have her half of the conversation out loud. "Gideon and Harrow."

Cam, nonplussed, takes her hand out of Cor's hair. "I mean, we play D&D with them every week and Gideon lives in my house. Of course I think about them."

Cor rolls over and props herself up. The motion draws Cam's eyes down away from her face, but that's absolutely fine with her. "I meant in bed."

"We hear them having sex at least twice a week."

"Do you ever want to join them?"

Cam colors faintly, a rare sign of discomfort. "I mean. I was sleeping with Gideon for a while."

Cor hopes they can talk about this. "I know," she says gently. 

Her worry only increases when Cam says, very faintly, "Oh no. I'm sorry, Cor, it wasn't like that--"

"Hey, hey, no, it’s fine. We weren't together then, and I’ve got you now. I’m secure. It’s like we talked about."

Cam still looks distressed. "You know why I was doing it, right?"

Cor shakes her head.

"Gideon wanted to be good enough for Harrow."

That is _extremely interesting._ She doesn't know if she wants to mention the handful of times she slept with Gideon herself. That, too, was before they were together, and her reasons were nowhere near as noble as Cam's had been. "But-- more importantly-- did you like it?"

Cam flushes more violently. "I mean. Um. Yes? But I like being with you more."

"What if we could have both of them?"

To Corona’s extreme fascination, this suggestion makes Cam’s breath catch in her throat. “Do you think Harrow would be interested?”

“More than you think,” says Corona, thinking of the weight of Harrow’s head on her shoulder. “And Gideon is… well, Gideon.”

Cam nods. She holds silence in such a way and Corona is surprised to realise that it doesn't make her nervous. “I need to think about it.”

“We’ve got time,” says Corona. Because she’s _happy_ now, safe in the circle of Cam’s arms in Cam’s bed. And then-- because Cam’s right there, giving Cor her full attention, and that _does things_ to Corona-- “Go again?”

“I don’t know how I’m going to keep up with you,” says Cam, but her hand is already on Corona’s knee and drifting up. 

“We have so much time to make up for,” Corona says, leaning in for a kiss.

* * *

Now that Corona’s brought it up, Cam can’t stop thinking about it. About all the thoughts she’d had of finding the limits of Gideon’s pleasure. She’s never had the same kinds of thoughts about Harrow before, but now that it’s been brought to her attention, the thoughts intrude on her waking hours. Even the damn nipple piercings have taken up residence in her brain.

So she’s not _waiting_ for Harrow to be done walking Meatball, per se, it’s just that she wants to have a conversation, to press on this particular thought and see how it gives under her fingertips. 

“You’re home early,” says Harrow, when Cam joins her as she’s hanging up the leash.

“Took the second half of the day from home,” says Cam. “Gideon’s going to catch a ride home with Cor.”

“She mentioned.” Harrow nods down at herself, presumably to indicate whichever vest pocket currently contains her cell phone. 

Cam shifts her weight onto the balls of her feet. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

Harrow looks at the dog, and then crouches to unzip her boots. “Who, Meatball?”

It breaks the tension. Cam rocks back down onto her feet. “I mean, thank you for that too.” She breathes in. “But I meant Gideon. She’s-- happier with you.”

Harrow’s eyes narrow. She’s always been alarmingly perceptive. Cam braces, and is glad she did when Harrow says, “You know, she wasn’t unhappy when she was having sex with you.”

Cam tunnels her fingers through her hair. “Did everyone know about that? It’s not like we were advertising.”

“We share a backyard, and you never closed the drapes.” Harrow tosses her boot into the corner, next to Gideon’s tidy row of sneakers. “Everyone knew.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s creepy. You should know that’s creepy.” Cam’s balancing on her toes again. She hadn’t even considered anyone might be outside, that the windows to her house would be, well, open windows in the dark of evening with the lights on. “Did Cor see?”

“Ianthe told her.” Harrow pauses, as if judging if Cam can handle the next terrible revelation. “Corona didn’t believe it until she saw for herself.”

Cam groans, which Harrow mercifully ignores as tucks herself into her corner of the sofa and picks up her book off the side table. She owes Cor another apology.

* * *

They’re getting ready for bed when Corona pulls her shirt off, turns around, and sees a pyjama-clad Cam hesitating with her knuckles white against the doorframe of the bathroom. “What’s wrong?”

“Harrow says you saw me having sex with Gideon.”

Awkwardly, Corona shrugs. “I mean. I was in the backyard and you didn’t close the blinds.” She _knows_ she shouldn’t have watched.

Unexpectedly, Cam says, “I’m sorry. I should have-- been more careful.”

“I mean. What I saw was hot.” Cor clears her throat. She’s the one who should be apologizing, and she can’t quite make the confession come out.

“Still. You shouldn’t have had to see that.” She doesn’t have to say more than that: they’ve talked about how long they’d wanted each other. It breaks Corona’s heart that Cam is apologizing when she’s the one who trespassed.

Not that she’s ever been good at doing the hard thing. Instead, she shimmies out of her jeans and raises an eyebrow. “How will you ever make it up to me?”

“Oh, I have some ideas.” Cam jerks her chin to point at the bed.

Cor goes willingly. She stretches out, arms high over her head. She knows what this does to her breasts, knows that it’s cheating to ask for anything when she’s posing like this. She asks anyway. “So I can text Harrow?”

The mattress dips under Cam’s weight. “Go for it,” she says, before lowering her head to suck into the side of one of the breasts.

* * *

Friendsgiving takes Harrow by surprise. Gideon and Cam have been talking about hosting it again, and Harrow’s there when they discuss it, but it still startles her when Gideon wakes up early on a Saturday morning and pops directly out of bed instead of rolling over to give her sleepy morning kisses. 

Harrow bundles into the robe she’s installed in Gideon's bedroom and trails downstairs to find Gideon attacking the kitchen with gusto. 

“I have to get the turkey in the oven,” she says, elbow-deep in the bird. “So it cooks in time.”

Begrudgingly, Harrow joins her in the kitchen to make the coffee. She can function without it, and Gideon is a force of nature when she’s on a mission, but if Cam wakes up at this hour on a weekend and has to cope with the full force of Gideon’s personality without caffeine, there will be hell to pay. Besides, she wants a cup herself. The mornings have gotten brisk.

* * *

The meal is substantially the same as it had been the previous year. It’s the five of them again. Everything is the same, and yet it feels so different. This year, they all note and appreciate Coronabeth’s holiday cleavage, but it doesn’t suck all the air out of the house as everyone takes an expectant breath, because Cam kisses her every time she walks in the room. This year, when Cam tastes cranberry off Gideon’s fingers, Harrow can lean up and kiss cranberry off Gideon’s lips. This year, Palamedes gets there late and disappears for vast swathes of the evening into the other room. It becomes obvious what’s taken his attention when Meatball is notably absent from the kitchen when they pack away the extensive leftovers again. It’s good. Gideon is susceptible to Meatball’s begging, and Palamedes keeps him from getting any more scraps of turkey. (He’s already had quite a lot.)

After Friendsgiving dinner, Palamedes leaves, and they end up on the couch again. Harrow relaxes, Gideon’s arm around her shoulders and Corona’s legs over her lap. The places they’d taken up last year have become permanent and routine. This year, they all change into pyjamas before they play the movie, and it’s comfortable. 

It’s only been a year, but they’re together now, and as much as she hates to admit it, Harrow’s life is fuller and warmer.

* * *

Gideon is doing the dishes as Harrow makes notes at the kitchen table. It’s just them tonight; Cam is at dance and Cor’s out with Ianthe. To combat the quiet, Gideon’s hooked her phone up to the kitchen speaker, and over Harrow’s protests, she’s singing along as she puts away the plates and scrubs the pots.

She knows something is wrong when Harrow stops complaining. Instead of drying and stowing the clean pots away, she tips them upside down onto a clean dish towel. Harrow needs her, and so she slides into the seat next to her girlfriend. “What’s up?”

Harrow doesn’t say anything. She’s staring into her phone, and Gideon takes the opportunity to lean into Harrow’s space, kiss her on the temple, and peer shamelessly over her shoulder.

It’s a text message from Coronabeth, and it’s not part of the group chat. _If you ever want another backrub, I’m game_.

Gideon waits, arm resting on the back of Harrow’s chair.

“I don’t know what this means,” Harrow says at last.

Leaning back in the chair next to Harrow’s, Gideon makes her voice casual. “It looks like she’s flirting.”

Harrow shoves her chair back from the table. “She can’t be. It’s _Coronabeth_. There’s no way--” she rises to pace the kitchen-- “and anyway, she has Cam.”

Gideon has heard this kind of equivocation from Harrow before. “Cam has Palamedes, too. It could be both.”

“I don’t know.” Harrow stops pacing and grips onto the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles go white.

Gideon eases herself out of her chair slowly and crosses to Harrow. “What do you want?”

“I don’t _know_.”

Gently, Gideon offers Harrow her hand. Harrow looks at it like Gideon’s offering her a snake, but Gideon stays still, and eventually, Harrow takes it. “Do you want to see what happens if you say yes?” Gideon asks.

Harrow doesn’t answer. That’s as good as confirmation.

* * *

It’s not hard to coax Cam and Cor to hang out. Gideon just waits until they’re all walking home from D&D and then suggests a movie. It’s a work night, but she’s found a short one. 

Corona tilts a sideways glance at Gideon, whose invitation wasn't trying to be subtle. Gideon smiles back, the same smile she'd used when Corona had soothed Harrow into near-sleep on the couch. She knows the exact moment that Corona recognizes it, can feel the inflection in Corona's eyebrows like a hand on her shoulders.

Yeah, they're doing this. Gideon can feel the faint tug of anticipation low in her abdomen. It follows her around the kitchen as she consolidates snacks into the snack dragon and brings it out to the couch, where Corona has draped herself even more decadently than usual. She has to pull her feet back for Gideon to sit down.

It’s comfortable for a while and none of them seem eager to disturb this moment of stillness. Gideon rests her hand on Harrow’s waist and Harrow leans into her shoulder. The movie plays on in the background and Gideon lets herself relax in the presence of her friends.

“Harrow?” Gideon feels Harrow’s head turn towards Corona. “Would you like a shoulder rub?”

Gideon smirks a little to herself. She should have known better than to let her guard down when she knows Cor wants something. 

Harrow hesitates for all of a moment before she untangles herself from under Gideon’s arm and begins to shift across the sofa to arrange herself in front of Corona. Corona is so much bigger and Gideon bites on her lip to keep from smiling too much and giving it all away. 

Harrow catches on anyways and pauses, halfway across the sofa. “What are you smiling at, Griddle?”

Gideon shrugs. “Nothing. Looks comfortable is all. Hey Cam, you wanna give me a shoulder rub?”

Cam scoffs gently. “You wish.”

“Please?” Gideon asks, drawing her eyebrows up and trying to look as meek as possible.

Cam snorts. “If you’re so desperate, ask my girlfriend.”

Harrow’s brow furrows and Gideon can see her put the pieces in place. The text messages. The knowing glances Gideon and Cam have been exchanging. Cor using the shoulder rubs as a way to flirt with Cam.

She snaps upright, retreating to her side of the sofa. Corona hasn't even had time to put her hands on Harrow's shoulders.

Contorting herself awkwardly, Harrow reaches out to snatch up the video game controller. She slams the pause button and glares hard across the sofa, where Cor has adopted her most innocent look. "What is this?" she demands.

“It’s an offer,” says Cam, very quietly. “You don’t have to say yes. The four of us already have something good. But-- if you wanted something more, you could have it.”

Harrow freezes. The only part of her body that moves is her fingertips, which reach back and dig into Gideon’s thigh through her shorts. “Why?”

“Because we like you, Harrow,” says Corona, in the throaty voice that makes what she wants abundantly clear. She swings her legs off Harrow’s lap and stands, taking Cam along with her, their fingers tangled together. Spreading her free arm wide, she catches Harrow’s eyes and waits.

On offer: a hug, with the option of more. Gideon stays still while Harrow considers her options, eyes darting from Corona’s outstretched arms to the exits and back again. At last, she peels herself off the sofa and approaches Cor gingerly, like she expects to be attacked.

Corona folds her free arm around Harrow slowly, and Harrow darts in like an angry squid, wrapping her arms around Corona like tentacles. She hits hard enough that it knocks Cor back half a step.

“This isn’t a yes. I need to think about things.” Her voice is muffled by the way her face is pressed into Corona’s chest. She pulls her face free, so she can look up at Corona. Very solemnly, she says, “But I like you too.”

They disengage, and Harrow shifts her weight hesitantly in the middle of the floor. 

“You wanna finish the movie?” asks Gideon, holding out her own arm.

“I suppose,” says Harrow, but she nestles back into her spot against Gideon’s side.

Things could have gone a lot worse.

* * *

The backyard is empty, but for Harrow and her chickens. There isn't even evidence of the other animals: Meatball is in the middle house, keeping Gideon company while she cooks dinner for the four of them, and Iago is snuggled into his shelter, dead asleep.

Technically, Harrow doesn’t need to be out here in the cold, either. The Halloween decorations have been up for weeks, and she has another two full weeks before the auto-feeder needs to be replenished. She’s hauled out the sacks of feed and jugs of water anyway, because she needs _space._

She’s still undecided after she refills the food and water dispensers. There’s a jar of mealworms in her pocket for chicken treats. "I don't know, Bob,” she says, tossing a handful into the coop. “It just doesn’t seem _real_.”

Even as she says it, she can think back and reconsider everything that Cor has been doing for-- months, longer than she’s been with Gideon even.

Things with Gideon are still new after three months, still thrilling every time. It’s still so much all at once, and she’s happy now. It’s terrifying to consider changing even more things. “How do I know I won’t break it all?” she whispers into the coop. Glaurica comes over to beg for more mealworms, and Harrow strokes her cape.

A voice breaks through the quiet sound of the chickens clucking amongst themselves. “Harrow?”

Harrow whips her head up. Gideon’s hanging out the back door, leaning precariously with one hand on the door frame. She’s not sure she’s ready to go in yet.

Gideon sees her hesitation and crosses the lawn, closing the door behind her to keep the heat in the kitchen. She pulls up alongside Harrow, wrapping her arm to rest on Harrow’s hips. “Hey,” she says, “Dinner’s ready. We’re waiting for you.”

“Do you love me?” Harrow asks abruptly. 

“I always have.” Gideon pulls her in, rounding down to kiss her. Harrow digs her nails into the back of Gideon’s neck, needing the contact. When Gideon draws back, she’ll have crescent-moons that will linger on her skin.

“Are you sure?” Harrow asks through kiss-swollen lips when Gideon lets her go. She needs Gideon to say the words. 

Gideon laughs, ruffling her hair. “Of course I love you, Harrow. Come have dinner.”

Harrow lets Gideon take her hand to lead her across the lawn and back into the kitchen.

Cam and Cor are at the table already, and it’s heavily-laden with Gideon’s special: grilled cheese and tomato soup, accompanied by a bowl of tossed salad. Harrow’s heart skips. They’re already family. Maybe it’s not so much change after all.

“I want to try,” she says, not bothering with preamble or context. They all know what she means.


	25. Corona Deserves Good Things

The sound of blades scraping noisily against ice fills Cor’s ears and her eyes flit over the scene beyond the cage of her mask. Her defenders are down-ice with the forwards like sharks scenting blood. They rotate in and out with practiced ease, the puck slipping from stick to stick effortlessly. It’s easy for Cor when they fall into a rhythm like this. There isn’t a big threat on her end of the ice and she gets to watch her girlfriend and the rest of the team work. It’s especially nice when she gets to spend the whole game here instead of on the bench, and as far as first games like that go, this one is going quite well.

Girlfriend. The word is still so new, so lovely when she shapes the words in her mouth. She keeps her eye on the bright white 9 emblazoned on the burgundy jersey and the way Gideon easily circles around the back of the net, giving the opposing goaltender a hard time.

It’s nice. Nice enough she’s caught daydreaming when the action at the other end of the ice breaks up, and streaking down the ice with the puck on her stick blade is a player in green. Corona’s defenders race down after her, but the gap is large and growing. She’s fast.

It’s not like she and Gideon haven’t been working on breakaways, but they’re always anxious events. There’s no help here, just her and the other team. Swallowing her nerves away, Corona crouches down into position and squares up, attempting to read the play.

There’s a shift in a skate, a glance of an eye, and Corona catches the fake-out just in time. The player transitions from a deke into a sharp turn left and pulls her stick back to send the puck towards the net.

Cor’s legs push her into place before she has the chance to think it through. Hours spent in Gideon’s garage building up the muscle in her thighs pay off in a glorious glide that interposes her body between the puck and the net, and she’s in just the right place to drop her leg pads and snag the soaring puck out of the air and into the safety of her glove.

It’s a thing of beauty too. Her glove carves a deft arc in the air as it happens, and Corona cradles the glove to her chest, keeping the puck safe, blood thumping loudly in her ears. The referee whistles the play down and Ashley finally catches up, stopping in front of Corona and patting her mask. “Sweet catch,” she says, a little winded from the chase, and Corona feels equally breathless from the thrill.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. She pushes herself up and lets the referee take the puck from her glove.

“Five more minutes, you’ve got this, Cor.” Ashley circles around to set up for a puck-drop and Gideon, at the center of it, shoots her a wink.

Cor’s still smiling when she drops into a crouch of her own, stick on the ice and glove ready. Five minutes. She’s got this.

* * *

The buzzer signifies the end of the game and the Cavaliers bench clears to congratulate their goaltender. Harrow doesn’t know the slightest thing about hockey, but for someone who has never played a full game before, Corona looks like she handled herself well.

Cam stands up from her seat and offers her a hand. “They’ll be going to the locker room after that. Want to wait for them there?”

Taking Cam’s hand still feels weird to Harrow. Not a bad sort of weird, just… new. Cam must read it, because she graciously lets go once Harrow is on her feet. Harrow is thankful and she says as much with the ever so slight lift of her lips. Cam gives her the briefest of nods in return.

They make their way to the locker rooms at the same time the Cavaliers begin to file in, boisterous after a win. Harrow’s happy to hang back against the wall when they squeeze past, still exchanging fistbumps and helmet taps. This sort of thing isn’t Harrow’s favourite, but she sees the smiles it puts on Corona’s face, on Gideon’s face. It makes them happy and she’s happy for that.

Speaking of, Gideon rounds the corner, helmet tucked under her arm, her red hair a dramatic mess of cowlicks and spikes held up by sweat. She runs her fingers through it haphazardly and grins when she spies Cam and Harrow. “Hi!” She’s got the dopiest grin on her face and Harrow’s utterly unsurprised when she coaxes Cam into a kiss. How Cam doesn’t screw up her face at the smell of sweat-logged hockey gear, Harrow doesn’t know.

And then they break apart and Gideon reaches for her. Her gloved hand cups Harrow’s face and she can feel the bulky fingers practically wrap around her ear. Despite the slight dampness on the palm of the glove, the touch is just enough that Harrow tolerates it. Smiles a little, even.

“I’m so much taller than you right now.”

Harrow rolls her eyes. “Yes, Griddle, an extra two inches of skates will do that to you.”

Gideon’s answering smile is soft and full of warmth. “You two don’t have to wait out here. Basically everyone on the team knows you two at this point. They won’t mind if you step into the locker room, and we’re probably going to razz Cor after her first full game. Wasn’t she awesome?”

Cam responds nearly immediately and Harrow is content to trail behind them by a few steps. 

She would laugh if six months ago someone tried to tell her she would willingly walk into a locker room, but she supposes it’s not so great a wonder if she cares so greatly for two of the people inside.

The door opens to two dozen locker stalls built into the walls and a mess of equipment bags and gear strewn on the floor. Corona’s got the end stall, ostensibly so she has more space for her leg pads, but it’s also an excellent space for her team to surround her in, mussing up her hair in fond congratulations.

Corona _radiates_ joy off her face and Harrow’s chest lightens at the sight. It’s an observation she’s made before, but Corona is so much happier now that she has things Ianthe doesn’t also have her fingers in. She has hockey, she has whatever exercise torture she’s decided to put herself through with Gideon and Cam, she has D&D. Happiness is an especially good look on Coronabeth, and given that Cor can make just about any outfit work, it says something.

Eventually, the crowd dissipates somewhat and Cor sees the three of them. Her smile is blinding and Harrow can’t help the small one that mirrors it on her own face. “Cam, Harrow,” she says breathlessly and waddles over in her gear to sweep Cam into a big hug. “So glad you could come watch.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You were amazing.” Cam replies and Harrow turns to Gideon to give them a moment to themselves.

Gideon is currently at her own stall with her jersey pulled over her head in what is clearly an effort to change. Stretched out like this, she’s all corded muscle under soft skin and long limbs, and Harrow remembers exactly why she likes Gideon best spread out and tied down on the bed.

That’s not what’s caught Harrow’s eye though. There are gaps in Gideon’s chest protector. Probably for mobility, but without the jersey, it leaves the tender areas beneath her arms and around her lower abdomen bare. Other people on the team wear shirts to cover this up; it figures that Gideon would not be one of them. 

More importantly, even with the bulk of the pads obscuring so much of Gideon’s torso, she can see red lines starting over the exposed portion of Gideon’s ribs, can see where they continue over her lower back. It isn’t subtle, and Harrow knows those lines: she put them there herself. They’re healing and half as red as they were yesterday. Harrow knows exactly when Gideon got them, can recall Gideon’s dulled groans when Harrow had marked her up.

Clearly, she’s also not the only one to notice.

“Funny place to bruise, Nav,” someone on the team says. 

Harrow watches realization dawn on Gideon’s face, and then something spark in her eye. Harrow can practically already hear Gideon say ‘ _Wouldn’t you like to find out’_ in her head. Her voice would be smug, teasing, an easy way to put paid to any further salacious comments.

But Gideon doesn’t say that. She doesn’t put on an impish grin. She doesn’t even make an innuendo. Instead, she stays quiet as a small and rather abashed smile overtakes her lips. She turns her head and looks at Harrow, and Harrow feels the weight of Gideon’s gaze crush into her. The air goes out of her lungs and she smiles back. The lack of a response is more to her than anything Gideon could have ever said.

Marta clears her throat loudly and pulls the team’s attention away long enough for Gideon to finish changing out of sweaty pads and into a clean shirt. She tosses her gear into the bag and zips it shut, dragging her bag to stand by Harrow. “That okay?”

Harrow surreptitiously hooks her finger around Gideon’s and Gideon bumps their hips together in response. It’s nice.

* * *

It’s different to feel Cam’s eyes on her now. Not that it’s any less delightful to hold Cam’s rapt attention, not that the feeling of Cam’s gaze raking over her doesn’t make her burn any less hot. But it’s different-- a good kind of different-- to know that Cam isn’t looking solely because of Corona’s charm. To know Cam is looking of her own volition, to know Cam wants for her too.

She’s taken her gear on and off dozens of times and she’s sure that Cam sees through her request immediately, but Cam’s attention is a glorious thing and Cor wants more of it. “Can you help me with the buckles?”

Cam flushes ever so slightly and nods, stepping behind to free Corona from her chest protector. 

“Cor!” Corona turns to see Jessie, their usual goaltender, approach. Something about a sore hamstring at practice meant Cor got the full game today and she’s thankful for it despite the circumstances. “Good game, kid.” Jessie extends a hand out for a fistbump.

Cor feels the protector loosen and she pulls it over her head. Fuck it. She peels her sweat-soaked shirt off as well and immediately after, she hears Cam’s small sharp intake of breath. God, she loves it. Grinning, she knocks knuckles with Jessie. “Thanks. I’m learning from the best. Is your leg feeling better?”

Jessie bounces on her toes a little, stretching. “Just soreness. Nothing a little rest won’t help. Hey, a bunch of us are going to the bar for drinks. You gonna come?”

Cor looks to Cam, and then to Gideon and Harrow. The latter two are lost in their own little wordless conversation. With effort, Cam drags her eyes up away from Cor’s lower back and gives her an encouraging smile.

Cor turns back with a grin. “I’ll go talk to Gideon and Harrow, and maybe I’ll see you there?”

* * *

Gideon waits at the bar for her drink and Cam’s, leaning against the wood of the table. She’s looking over at the tables their hockey team have rearranged in an effort to sit together. Still, they’re pressed practically shoulder to shoulder. Sandwiched between Jessie and Ashley is Corona, cheeks pink with alcohol and attention. It seems the rest of the team has conspired to pay for all her drinks tonight and laud her throughout the evening.

“Hey,” a voice beside her says, and Gideon turns to see Harrow. Harrow steps in just close enough that their hips brush up against each others’. Gideon reaches to touch the small of Harrow’s back briefly, letting go when Harrow softens into her side.

“Hey,” Gideon says. “What brings you here?”

Harrow nods her head back towards the table. “The table is a bit too busy for my tastes. I needed a moment.” She’s still holding her first drink half-finished. “I figured you wouldn’t mind the company.”

Gideon certainly doesn’t. “Thanks for coming. I know this isn’t normally your thing.” It’s effort on Harrow’s part to be here and Gideon wants to recognise that.

“Yes, well, you know,” Harrow says. “It’s for Corona.” Which minimizes the significance of what they’re doing: it’s their second time out like this, as a unit. It feels like it means something. Like it’s for them, too. “Speaking of, have you noticed?”

Gideon turns to look back at Corona. Corona, who usually glows under attention. Corona, who keeps whole rooms wrapped around her finger and hanging on to every word with her immense confidence. Without a doubt, she has the room’s attention, but her smile isn’t quite as brilliant nor quite as genuine. It’s even more obvious when Marta stops by to compliment her and Corona takes it, but certainly not in stride. “Huh.”

Harrow gives her a sideways glance. “It’s new for her.”

Gideon nods, running a hand through her hair. It’s still a little damp from the shower she had earlier, but it puts just the slightest bit of volume in it and she’s pleased. It’s good Corona’s finally getting recognition for her skills and talent, but she understands that it takes some getting used to. “I’m proud of her.”

“You should tell her.”

“A beer and a Sprite?”

Gideon turns around and nods to the bartender, grabbing the Sprite and slinging her arm over Harrow’s shoulder. “Grab the other?”

Harrow raises an eyebrow and lifts her half-finished drink.

“It’s for Cam.”

Harrow concedes, graciously picking up the drink, and they walk back to the table side by side.

* * *

Cam’s more or less content to spend her night here, beer in one hand, the other arm slung over the back of Harrow’s chair. In her own audacious move, Harrow’s got her hand on Cam’s thigh tracing distracting circles over the denim. Gideon’s offered to drive tonight and Cam’s taking advantage by imbibing a little and having an animated discussion about font, typeface, and the use of Papyrus with Marie.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad typeface,” Cam says, waving her hand absentmindedly. “I just think it needs to be used with discretion and certainly not for a major movie title like-”

Movement at the periphery of her vision catches her attention and she turns her head to see Corona making her way back to the table, possibly from the bathroom. She’s rosy around the cheeks and stops behind Gideon to drop a kiss into fiery red hair, then Harrow to brush her hand over the nape of her neck. 

Cam tilts her head back and catches Corona’s eye with a grin and waits for a kiss. No such luck, but Corona does bend down to rest her chin on Cam’s shoulder. 

“Hello,” Corona says, and Cam smiles lazily. “Sounds like something interesting going on here.”

“You’re interesting,” Cam answers with forwardness that pleasantly surprises herself.

Corona laughs, bright and careful. The sort of careful Cam now knows is painstakingly constructed to be convincing and liberally applied to Cor’s job. The sort that isn’t genuine. “Then maybe you’ll indulge me with your company?” She lays a hand on Cam’s other shoulder and squeezes gently.

Cam cranes her neck up, looking for a kiss. Half of it is an answer to her question, half an attempt to assuage Cor’s discomfort. This time, Cor humors her and seals their lips together.

When they come up for air, Marie's eyebrows come up in a knowing gesture. "Looks like you're all going to have a really good night."

Cor chuckles, helping to pull Cam’s chair back so she can get out. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Cor moves her hand to Cam’s tricep and guides them out the door and into the crisp wintery air. Cam immediately tucks her hands into her own armpits, breathing out through her mouth and watching her breath fog. The next breath brings cold into her lungs and she shivers a little. She should have grabbed her leather jacket before coming out. “You okay?”

Cor smiles and Cam’s relieved to see it reach her eyes this time, even if the lift in her lips is small. “Yeah. I just need a little fresh air.”

Cam nods and reaches her arm out to collect Cor into her side in an embrace. Cor’s head turns to rest her cheek against Cam’s hair and Cam pulls her closer. “Of course.” They stand in silence together, the fog of their breaths mingling. “Hey, you looked really good today.”

Cam feels Corona’s smile more than she sees it. “In the locker room?” Corona asks, bumping their hips together.

Cam flushes at the memory brought back to the surface of her mind, of the desire to reach out and touch soft skin and press kisses down the length of Cor’s spine. “Well, yeah. And during the game, too. You were amazing.”

The silence that Corona holds, one usually peaceful and comfortable, rings with a silent note of discord like a drop of water near the edge of an otherwise mirror-still pond. Cam breathes out again and watches the fog glow in the orange hue of the streetlight.

“Thank you,” Corona says finally, and Cam feels the tension drains from her shoulders when the silence feels right again. 

“Of course,” she says to fill the quiet. It feels sacred and good. Her arm wraps around Corona’s waist and she leans her head onto Corona’s shoulder. “You’re hot, no question about that,” she says minutes later when she’s finally collected the words she wants to use. “But the other parts of you are worthy of recognition and attention too. Your skills, your hard work, your tenacity, and the love you have for other people.”

“I’m learning.” Cor straightens up and pulls away from the hug to cup Cam’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Cam turns her head into the touch, kissing Cor’s palm. “Practice makes perfect.” Corona’s hair is voluminous and glows when backlit by the streetlamps, a halo made of golden thread. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.

Cor’s smile glows something genuine and vibrant and she pulls their faces together, giving Cam time to step away if she wants.

Instead, Cam steps in and presses their lips together, chapped in the cold air. Their bodies move to fit together; hands wrap around hips, torsos pressed flush, noses bumping. The chill of the winter air is all but forgotten and Cam feels Corona sigh softly into the kiss.

They break apart and Cam reaches up to brush her thumb over Cor’s lower lip. “We could do that for you. Be the practice, I mean. I know I love you for everything you are. I’m certain Gideon and Harrow feel the same way. Let us tell you. Let us show you.”

Corona giggles a little. “That sounds like a bedroom thing.”

Cam shrugs easily. “It can be. Do you want it to be?”

Corona catches her lower lip between her teeth as her eyes flicker away in thought. When they return to meet Cam’s, the lip bite is gone, replaced with a soft, if slightly nervous smile. “I think I do.”

It’s easy then to tug Corona back down for another kiss, more incessant this time. Corona folds into the pressure and kisses back ounce for ounce, generous with her touches. 

Cam’s more than happy to let her lead this time, to not hold back on the breathy moan that escapes her throat when Cor scrapes her teeth against her lower lip and tugs a little, to splay her fingers across the expanse of Corona’s back and feel its steady rise and fall, to break away with thrumming pulse and quickened breath.

“I’ll get Gideon and Harrow?” she asks, voice pitched low.

“Yes, yes,” Cor says, and her own voice is thick. “I’ll say my goodbyes.” 

* * *

She should really know by now how the team would react to her saying she and her girlfriends are going home early-- especially with Gideon’s complete lack of subtlety when Cam goes to get her, paired with Harrow’s quiet intensity. Not that Harrow isn’t normally intense, but there’s a peculiar look Harrow gives her and it sends a soft shiver down Cor’s spine.

Ashley waggles her eyebrows, Marie wolf-whistles loudly, and Cor pushes at her shoulder with teasing exasperation. “Don’t be crass. I’ll see you all at practice.”

“Bye, Cor,” Jessie laughs, waving. “Bye Gideon!” 

“Bye Cor and Gideon’s girlfriends!” Ashley calls from the other end of the table and Cor ducks her head before her flush comes up too high. She honestly couldn’t care less; she’s entirely too happy to care right now.

“Let’s get you home, shall we?” Cam says into her ear and Cor can hear the smile behind it.

When she pulls back to look at Cam, she’s certain her own eyes are aglow. “Take me there.”


	26. Good Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our friends skipping the smut:
> 
> We're so sorry, please just come back tomorrow.
> 
> Love,  
> Chaos Gremlins

Gideon pulls the rose gold Range Rover into the Tridentarius garage, and by the time she kills the engine, Corona is already turning around from the passenger seat to look at Cam and Harrow.

"Can I invite you inside?" she asks, and makes a point of raking her eyes over Harrow's form.

It's entirely unnecessary in Cam's eyes. Cor could ask for anything and any of the people in the car would instantly drop everything to help, to get, to give. "Our house, perhaps? There's no one else there." 

"Of course," Gideon says, giving Cor her keys back. They all slip out of the car and into the evening night. Gideon unlocks their front door and pushes it open, inviting them all in. “Water, anyone?”

Corona toes off her shoes, artfully running her hands through her hair. Cam can see the ever so slight waver in the motion that betrays the slightest bit of nerves. "No, thank you," she says.

Cam smiles and tilts her chin at Gideon, gentle encouragement as she unzips her own boots.

"Maybe something else, then?" Gideon says, reaching for Corona's hip.

Corona doesn't fight it, lets Gideon pull her in to fit their lips together.

It's a lovely picture. Gideon's jawline contrasts with the softness with which they part and meet again, Corona's hand curling around Gideon's back like it's a waltz they're well-familiar with. And they are. It's clear to see they've done this dance before with the way they move hands to cup and caress, and slide fingers under the shoulders of jackets.

 _Good for them_ , Cam thinks with a small smile to herself. She feels a firm tug on her jacket lapels and follows where it guides her, finding herself pulled to face Harrow.

Harrow doesn't loosen the fist in her clothing. "Gideon told me you were a do-er. You're not doing a hell of a lot right now."

Cam grins. "What, have you been thinking about this? I'm flattered."

Harrow huffs and yanks Cam down by the lapel to kiss her. 

There's more teeth than Cam expects but it's not unpleasant. No, it's incredible, actually, and Cam growls against Harrow's lips with a grin and kisses back harder. It feels like a challenge. Harrow kisses like a storm and Cam stands her ground against the sting of teeth and the warmth of Harrow's hands moving to hook around her belt. She presses her height advantage and tilts Harrow’s head up high, makes her fight to keep their lips connected.

"Well, shit..." says Gideon.

Cam finally pulls away, leaving Harrow on the balls of her feet, grinning and panting softly. She turns to the source of sound and sees that Gideon and Corona have stopped to watch.

"Well, don't stop on our account," Gideon says with a breathless laugh.

Corona pushes her hair back and nods to the stairs. "Cam, would you terribly mind if we used yours?"

It makes sense; it's the largest bedroom in the house. It's also the bed where Cam's made Gideon kneel, where she's pressed Cor into her sheets at least half a dozen times. The thought of having all four of them there, hands roaming freely, mouths swollen with kisses, soft words shared beneath the sheets... "By all means."

Corona takes Gideon's hand and leads her up the stairs. Cam looks back to Harrow. "For Coronabeth?"

Harrow rolls her eyes, letting go of Cam's belt. "I can have some of you at the same time."

Cam concedes the point and takes off her leather jacket, draping it over the back of the living room armchair as she goes up. By the time she makes it up to the bedroom, Corona's taken it upon herself to lay on the bed with Gideon cross-legged at her feet, waiting for Cam and Harrow. Cam goes to lean against the frame of her bed and Harrow stays at her side, quietly tangling their fingers together.

"So I was thinking..." Harrow says to Cor. "You were so good at the game today. I think you deserve a reward."

Cor flushes, cheeks dusting pink. "I-- it was nothing, really."

Gideon shakes her head. "No, Harrow's right. You were incredible and carried the team on your back today. If you want this, I want to reward you too."

The blush spreads, but there's still a slight hesitation in Corona's expression that makes Cam pause.

"You can say no," Cam says, softly assuring her.

Cor smiles at her when she says it, then turns to Gideon and Harrow. "No," she says, then pauses. A slow, confident smile begins to appear on her lips and she hums. "No, I want to be rewarded."

Harrow straightens up, taking up space beyond her physical frame with her posture and attitude. “Then lie down.” She reaches up to stroke the line of Gideon’s jaw. In spite of the height difference, the proprietary air is distinct and palpable. “Is this okay?”

Gideon chokes. “ _Please_ , Harrow.”

The corners of Harrow’s eyes crinkle, a minute change that indicates glee. “Then go warm her up.” She cocks her head at Cam. “And you, strip.”

Cam flashes her teeth in a grin. "You're going to have to try harder than that, Nonagesimus."

Something playful and utterly devious glints in Harrow's eye. If Cam had any doubts about this being a challenge downstairs, they're utterly eviscerated now. Harrow reaches out to push at Cam's sternum, shoving her backwards while she advances.

This, Cam can concede. She can practically hear the gears in Harrow's head turning, working out her plan of attack, and she wants to see it. She wants to know what it's like to be under Harrow's eye, to be read and taken apart with surgical precision. It's _hot_. She stops when she feels the wall come up behind her, and Harrow crowds up into her space.

"Pushover. All talk," Harrow teases.

"You haven't seen me yet," Cam tells her, and pulls Harrow in by the jaw for another kiss.

Harrow's hands press up against Cam's stomach, bony fingers digging purposefully into Cam's ribs. It draws a quiet gasp out of her, one that she hadn't meant to give up so easily. The touch is warm and oh so welcome.

Cam pulls their hips together, knees Harrow's thighs apart to wedge her thigh between Harrow's legs, and Harrow responds by grinding down and palming Cam's breast through layers of clothing. "This isn't getting me naked, Harrow." Cam breathes out slowly through her nose when Harrow finally relinquishes her lips for air.

"I don't need you naked to make you cry out," Harrow returns, and turns the attention of her lips and teeth to the corner of Cam's lips, to her cheek, to her jaw.

"So self-assured," Cam breathes, tilting her head to give Harrow access. Her eyes flutter closed at the feeling of teeth at her earlobe. She slides a hand up to cup the back of Harrow's head, closing her fingers around short black hair. "Can I tug?"

Harrow's grunt of affirmation at her neck turns into a throaty hiss when Cam pulls, and Harrow shoves her hand under Cam's shirt to search for her bra clasp.

"Back," Cam says, and arches her spine so Harrow can flick it open. It also leaves her in a spectacular place for Harrow to go back to palming her, trapping a nipple between narrow fingers and rolling. It's a little awkward with her layers still on, but it's _good_ , blossoming out in warmth that pools in her belly, and Cam can do a quick and messy fuck if that's what Harrow wants. Nevertheless... "I still haven't stripped."

Harrow's nails scratch down Cam's stomach when she pulls her hand away from Cam's breast and Cam makes a sound at the feeling. Cam has half a mind to protest the loss until she feels Harrow flip her belt buckle open and unbutton her jeans, pressing the flaps open.

"Oh," she breathes, and Harrow gives Cam’s collarbone one last nip before she glances up with the sort of smug expression Cam would expect to see on Gideon.

"Yes, Cam?"

Harrow is absolutely infuriating and Cam decides that the only course for action is to kiss her about it. They meet in a brilliant clash of teeth and lips and growls that all coil low and hot in Cam's gut. "Yes," she hisses, sending shivers down her spine when Harrow finally pushes her hand down her pants.

There's a certain delight to feeling Harrow's lips curl up into a grin against her own. "Lovely, stoic Camilla..." Harrow intones, pressing fingers against where she's hot and pulling her hand free. Her fingertips come back wet.

Cam huffs playfully. "I think you're hot. I think what you do to me is hot. So bite me."

"Maybe I will," Harrow says, and Cam has no doubt of it whatsoever.

Cam casts a glance over to the bed and the sight that greets her is frankly incredible. Gideon's back is bare and flexed with the way she holds herself above Cor, sounds of soft sighs and groans spilling from the two. They're loud, and Cam knows she can be loud too. She looks back to Harrow and grins, stoking the flame of their playful rivalry. "And will you make me cry out too? Like you promised?"

"Shut up," Harrow hisses with absolutely no rancour whatsoever, and pushes Cam's head back into the wall with her next kiss. Her hands shove Cam's jeans down to trap her thighs and Cam has to work to not tilt her hips into Harrow's hand.

"God, _Harrow_..." Cam says under her breath, and tugs on Harrow's hair to tip her head back. It reveals paper-thin skin at Harrow's neck and Cam is thrilled to feel Harrow's pulse flutter under her lips when she kisses there.

Harrow's fingers circle her clit and Cam's hips jerk of their own accord, her grip on Harrow's hair loosening. "Just human, but flattered," Harrow says, and Cam would roll her eyes if she wasn't so damn distracted by two fingers pushing in. They're clinical, all business with the way Harrow curls her fingers and tilts her wrist so Cam can grind on the heel of her palm.

The knife-edge precision is enough to make Cam's knees feel weak. Not for the first time, she's thankful for the way Harrow's got an arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her up. Her head tips back and thuds against the wall. She can't be bothered to care and she rolls her hips to take Harrow deeper, to get the pressure she so badly wants on her clit. "Fuck..."

At some point, Harrow's hips had stilled in her concentration, but now they start up again, grinding slowly against Cam's thigh. "That's what we're doing, yes."

Gods, how Harrow manages to be so coherent is beyond Cam. It feels like she can only hold a single thought at a time, and right now one thing fills her mind. She reaches forward to push Harrow's vest off her shoulders, so that it falls to the ground with a thud, and gives up when the buttons of Harrow’s shirt prove slippery. Instead, she rucks the shirt up and pushes her hands up. Her fingers meet Harrow's ribcage, and then metal warmed against skin. Cam groans. "Shit, they get me every time." She rubs her finger over the charm, thumbs the nipple behind it, and then tugs ever so gently on one. Harrow _shudders_ , the fingers around Cam's waist tightening almost painfully. It’s amazing, it’s perfect, and Cam wants to do it again.

Harrow looks like she has half a mind to say something back, but then Cam tugs again and the words die on Harrow's lips. Rather, Harrow’s response comes in the form of curling of her fingers harder, until Cam snarls. It's easy to fall into a rhythm like this. Harrow fucks her on her fingers, Cam lets Harrow grind on her thigh, and they egg each other on with tugs, with touches, with claws, and with kisses. Easy enough that Cam doesn't notice her peak building and sneaking up on her until Harrow pulls out her fingers and Cam realizes with sudden clarity that she's balancing on a knife's edge. She whines loudly. She can still feel Harrow’s hand trapped between her jeans and her core, drenched with arousal and still very much pressed to her folds. She attempts to grind down and the arm around her waist cinches tighter to hold her in place.

"Think you could manage a _please_ , Cam?" Harrow teases, sounding rather strangled herself.

Half of her is cognizant of the fact that Harrow's hips are stuttering in their own rhythm, but the issue at hand is the lack of fingers, of stimulation, of Harrow's touch. "Harrow..." It comes out ragged, the want evident in her voice. Cam could not give less of a fuck.

"It won't kill you," Harrow rasps, the last syllable choked off into a half groan. 

No, it won't, and Cam's entirely too desperate to care even if it did. "Harrow, please."

Harrow's fingers push back in, fluid and viscous, and tip Cam over the edge. She falls forward, muffling her moans into Harrow's shoulder. Blood roars in her ears and she loses herself to the mindless grinding of her hips, desperate to wring out every last drop of pleasure Harrow’s fingers will offer her. Slowly, the shudders subside and she feels fingers comb into her hair, easing her back down to earth.

Cam clears her throat a little. With one hand, she begins to undo the buttons of Harrow’s shirt and push it away, the other finding purchase on Harrow's hips. They’re so narrow, so bony, they dig into her palm. She feels them stutter again under her grip and laughs a little, low and throaty. "Anything I can do to help?" God, Harrow has so much packed into her small body.

Harrow shakes her head and holds onto Cam's shoulders tighter. "Stand there and look pretty," she grits out.

That's not usually Cam's job, and from anyone else the request would be asinine, but for Harrow, Cam can certainly do that. She rocks her thigh up in time with Harrow's motions and presses kisses to Harrow's shoulder without looking, muttering meaningless nothings until Harrow stiffens in her grasp, nails leaving deep crescent-shaped marks in Cam’s skin, and slowly sinks into her touch. Cam keeps her arms slung low around Harrow’s waist, propping her up until Harrow pushes her face off of Cam’s shoulder. Carefully, she unwinds their arms and tilts Harrow's chin up for a kiss. "Need anything else?"

Harrow's eyes flutter open and they're darker than dark. "Coronabeth," she says finally.

"Coronabeth," Cam echoes.

“Coronabeth,” Cor says, ‘is absolutely _delighted_ by what’s going on.”

Cam looks back to the bed. She supposes she can forgive herself for missing what’s been happening, what with Harrow’s expert fingerfucking, but this is good too. This is _very_ good. 

Corona and Gideon have clearly had a much more successful go at ridding each other of their clothes. Despite Harrow’s instructions, Gideon is sitting between Corona’s legs, her back pressed to Corona’s chest, bare thighs spread and hands fisted into the sheets. More intriguing than that, her head is tilted back and a flush runs prettily from her cheeks down to her sternum where her chest heaves for breath. The cause is clear: Corona’s long fingers tease up and down the inside of her thigh, and if the way Gideon’s glistening down her thighs means anything, Corona’s done a bang up job teasing her to hell and back. Gideon is quickly spinning into incoherency and it’s a glorious sight.

“I thought I told you to warm her up, Gideon,” Harrow says, clearly trying to inject a tone of being cross, but it’s undercut by the way her hair is mussed in an entirely incriminating manner and her shirt is utterly rumpled. Heedless of her personal appearance, she casts her button-up away and ignores her bunched-up camisole entirely, cupping her own breast in her hand and kneading gently, letting the skull charms dangle between her second and third fingers.

Gideon lets out a broken moan, her hips canting up into empty air.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, darling,” Corona purrs. Her fingers trace up Gideon’s thigh again, the other holding down squirming hips. “I’m _plenty_ warm. We were just watching, weren’t we, Gideon?”

Cam bites back a most colourful curse. With the movement, she can see that Corona’s fingers are wet, too, and she doesn’t envy the torture Corona is putting Gideon through. God, Corona is devious. “What happened to this being about you?” she asks.

“Oh, but this _is_ for me. This is new and fun, and I love when people are good for me. You’re being so good for me, aren’t you, Gideon?” Corona coos, dragging the pads of her fingers over Gideon’s clit. Gideon’s cry is thick with need and Corona’s smile widens. “Oh yes, yes you are.”

Cam leans across the bed and runs her palm reverently from Gideon’s ankle up to her knee. Gideon makes a pleading sort of noise and her knee crooks under Cam’s gentle lift, bending to prop itself up. Cam leans in to press a kiss to the joint. She can’t help but ruefully think back to Harrow calling her a do-er. So sue her, she wants to touch. 

Gideon's propped-up leg exposes her all the more to Cam’s eyes, to Cam’s wandering thoughts. And gods there are so many of them. All her dreams and fantasies stowed away from syllabus nights spent in bed with Gideon, thinking about the way Gideon’s golden eyes flash with dangerous delight when she’s given instructions, the way she purrs when she’s told she’s done well. It’s all here for her to push, to explore at Corona’s behest. 

She leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of Gideon’s knee again, feeling the muscles of her thigh twitch under her lips.

“Gideon, _behave_.” Harrow slides onto the mattress next to the three of them and runs a single finger down the column of Gideon’s throat. “Tonight is for Corona.” To Corona, she adds: “She’s yours for the evening, if you want her.” 

“Oh, I want.” Corona tips her head to the side, absentmindedly drawing lazy circles with her fingers over Gideon’s collarbone. “I want all of you. Watching you two was incredibly hot.” 

Gideon groans in agreement, her eyelids half-opening for just a moment before Cam closes her teeth against the inside of her thigh and they flutter shut again.

Corona presses a kiss to the side of Gideon’s face. “If it’s not too much to ask…” she says, and then trails off. She’s being coy again. 

Cam’s heart rate accelerates. She pulls away from Gideon’s leg where she’s bitten a trail of marks halfway up to the junction of her thighs. “Anything. You just need to ask.”

“Anything?” Cor raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lip curling into a smile.

“Be bold,” says Cam.

Corona lets go of Gideon’s hip and her hand fists into Cam’s shirt, pulling her in for a long kiss over Gideon’s shoulder.

It’s inexplicably and indescribably arousing to feel Corona’s hand slide up to cup the back of her neck, pulling her in to sandwich Gideon’s body between them, Gideon’s thighs trembling under her palms. This shouldn’t be real. None of this should be real, but then Gideon moans low and long and it echoes in Cam’s ears long after Gideon’s run out of breath. It sounds like everything Cam remembers from months ago and so much better. Cam wants more.

Cor breaks their kiss and lets go of Cam’s neck so that she can cover the hollow of Cam’s throat with her palm, keeping Cam from chasing for more. It’s impossibly hot. “I want a show,” Corona says, and it’s all teeth in her smile. It’s terrifying, it’s incredible. Cam is utterly in awe of her. “I want you to take Harrow apart again, but properly this time. I want you to earn her every cry and break her on your fingers. I want Gideon to lay there and hold Harrow down for you, to spread her open. And _I..._ ” 

She licks her lips and they’re still close enough Cam could just close the distance, could kiss her until she’s gasping, would offer Corona her own breath. 

“I want to watch. I want to be _indulged_ with the sights and sounds of you. I want to touch, I want to take, I want to watch you take each other apart, and I want to _feast_ on everything that remains.”

Cam pulls back, lifting a knee to the bed and resting her weight back. “Coronabeth Tridentarius,” she breathes. 

“You said to be bold. I’m being bold.” Corona cups Gideon’s breast, thumbs a nipple, and basks in the responding gasp.

“So this is what you hide under the coy act? I’ve underestimated you,” Cam admits. 

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Corona says with a sly grin and an effortless wink. Hedonist and flirt.

She scoots back on the bed so that she can sit back on her heels next to Harrow, who’s looking slightly dazed by this byplay. “Spread Harrow out for us, Gideon.” Cor puts her hand on Gideon’s sternum and gives her a little shove. 

Gideon goes willingly, sprawling out on her back diagonally across Cam’s bed. To collect Harrow, she has to crunch up again, which is a visual treat made of hard-earned muscle and raw strength. Cam’s seen it all before, in the gym and during the time they’d been fucking, but she’s never had the opportunity to watch and appreciate like this. Next to her, Corona purrs.

Gideon pulls on Harrow’s wrist and settles Harrow’s weight across her hipbones. Her hands on Harrow’s waist are impossibly gentle as she eases them both into a reclining position, and then they slowly drift upward toward Harrow’s nipple piercings. Cam can’t argue; she herself hadn’t been able to resist their magnetic pull.

“Oh, I know you want her,” says Corona. The contrast of Gideon’s tanned hand against the cultivated pallor of Harrow’s breast is delicious. “But that’s not what I told you to do.”

Cor snakes her arm around Cam’s waist as Gideon hooks her ankle around Harrow’s, puts her knees inside Harrow’s and spreads them both out on the bed. For someone who carries herself so rigidly, Harrow is surprisingly flexible.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Cor asks, lips on Cam’s ear. “Go on. You know what I want.”

Cor’s pressed full-body and naked against her side, and Cam hates pulling away, but she’ll also do a great deal to indulge her girlfriend. _Their_ girlfriend.

She pulls her shirt off over her head, dropping it and her unhooked bra to the ground before she leans over the bed. “Gideon, I need her legs for a moment,” she whispers, and when Gideon gives them to her, draws Harrow’s trousers down and off.

Harrow flings her own leg to the side again, her dark eyes gleaming with challenge. Well. Cor has set her up to do something about that.

She kneels between Harrow’s thighs and starts with Harrow’s hands, because it’s rare that she gets Harrow spread out like this. Corona settles in on the opposite side, her mirror image as she kisses and nips her way up to the inside of the elbow. There’s an illusion of fragility Harrow holds in her bones, in the narrowness of her wrists, but her pulse thrums strong under Cam’s lips and Cam lets herself suck into the flesh as she approaches Harrow’s armpit.

It’s Gideon who makes the noise as Harrow twitches, splayed out between Cam and Cor. It’s strangled, it’s pitched, it’s so very Gideon it almost hurts. Gideon’s knee jerks a little at Harrow’s movement and Cam shoves at the errant limb and turns her focus to the way her line of kisses trace up to Harrow’s shoulder cap. She can allow herself a little teeth there where the skin is smooth and the muscle taut under her attention.

When Cam lets go of Harrow’s arm and leans back to survey her handiwork, she finds that Gideon’s hands have crept around to Harrow’s ribcage again, the tips of her fingers brushing the place where her chest begins to swell.

Arms freed, Harrow’s hands spring to Cam’s unprotected back, and this time, the nails have bite in them. She can feel the rawness of the red marks they must be leaving.

“Gideon,” says Corona sharply, bringing Gideon’s hands to tangle with Harrow’s. “What did I tell you to do? Did I say you could touch her?”

Gideon chuckles weakly. “You’re killing me.”

“Good.” Cor positions their joined hands away from their bodies at a clear but comfortable angle. Harrow pulls against her confinement, like it’s a reflex, but Gideon holds strong, and they’re both distracted. “I’ve seen you do this,” says Cor, “and I want to try.” She brushes a thumb over one of Harrow’s nipple rings and tugs. Harrow arches. Her motion spurs Gideon’s, and they roll together like ocean waves, not in sync but still part of the same whole, the one part affecting the next as they break onto the shores of Coronabeth’s long fingers.

Cam wants to watch, to see this play out, but this is Cor’s show, and she has a job to do. Even though it’s still new between them, she knows what Harrow likes, the indirect touches and gentle pressure, the heat of her mouth.

“ _Yes,_ ” says Cor, when Cam hooks one of her arms around both Gideon’s and Harrow’s thighs so that she can grab Harrow’s hip for leverage. “God, you’re all so hot.”

Gideon makes a garbled noise, and Cam has to dig her fingers into Gideon’s hips to keep her down. It also lifts the trail of marks Cam left on her thigh earlier into view, and contrasted against Gideon’s, Harrow’s thigh is bare and unmarked.

Harrow deserves it. She deserves it so much. Cam’s lips are reverent against the inside of her thigh, her teeth like a barely-there whispered prayer. Cam can see Harrow’s hands fist around Gideon’s fingers in the periphery of her vision. Harrow moans.

Cam lets the sounds guide her up Harrow’s thigh to the crease of her hip where she lavishes sensitive skin with fluttering kisses. Harrow’s hips lift and twitch under the attention and Cam decides then and there that she wants to hear Harrow moan again. 

From here she can look up and see Harrow’s stomach rise and fall with every breath, can see the way Cor cups the swell of Harrow’s breasts and savour the taste of Harrow’s skin across her tongue. It does something to her, seeing Gideon use her strength while Corona uses that clever mouth of hers to coax breathy sighs out of Harrow. She wants to help. She wants to do her part.

Harrow is _right there_ and it’s so easy to press a kiss right above her clit and feel Harrow’s hips work. And then turn her head to the left and press a kiss to the crease of her hip and feel Harrow kick out at her. And then to the right and--

“Cam,” says Harrow from above. Her voice catches and the muscles in her abdomen are already tense: Cam knows firsthand what Cor’s lovely fingers can do to her own nipples, and Harrow’s are exquisitely sensitive. It’s amazing that she can speak at all, but she goes on. “Please don’t tease.”

Gideon is the one who takes instructions well, and Corona will make her earn it before she turns pliant under Cam’s fingers; but from Harrow the request settles warm over Cam’s shoulders and she lowers her head to properly worship.

It takes long minutes of listening to Harrow’s breathy gasps before Cam realizes that what she’s doing is actually keeping Harrow from reaching satisfaction, that it’s rerouting her around the soft peaks and leading her on a winding path straight to the very precipice of the mountain.

“Take over here,” Cor tells Gideon, guiding her hands to Harrow’s breasts before sitting back on her heels to watch. “And be gentle. I don’t know how much more she can take.”

Harrow jerks, full-body, and makes a noise. It’s brief, muffled, understated-- nothing like Corona, who screams-- but from Harrow, it’s a deep admission. Under her, Gideon sobs. They’re all so connected that every broken breath Gideon takes rocks them from the foundation.

Gideon presses her cheek hard into Harrow’s, as if the small sound Harrow made has pushed her over some unknowable edge. 

“You’re so loud,” says Corona. She brushes her fingertips over Gideon’s mouth as if to shush her. Gideon’s lips part and admit them. “Don’t bite.”

This does not produce a quiet Gideon: it just transforms her sharp cries into a low moan that recedes into the background, the sound underpinning Harrow’s small noises just as her body underpins Harrow’s physical form.

Watching Cor expertly dismantle their girlfriends like this is irresistible. Cam can’t pretend she’s not affected: Cor’s enraptured them all. 

It’s entirely selfish to let go of Harrow’s hip with one hand and slip it under her undone jeans, but rocking gently takes the edge off, coaxes the heat coiled low in her belly into submission. It keeps her mind fixed on Harrow, on the twitch of her thigh, on the way her taste coats her tongue. 

“Cam...” Harrow’s hips lift against Cam’s hand and twist. Her jaw hangs open and her lips are chapped from panting. Gods, she looks so good.

She takes her hands out of her pants and wipes them clean on the sheets. It’s fine, Gideon’s making a mess of them anyways with the way she’s soaked through. She brushes the pads of her fingers feather-light over Gideon-- who cries out beautifully-- before Cam’s pressing down again. “Harrow. Harrow.”

Harrow opens her eyes and they’re blown out-- so, so dark. “Mmh?”

“Yes?”

Harrow nods, tight and small, and she makes the most wonderful little noise when Cam finally pushes two fingers inside of her. 

“God, _Harrow_...” Cam leans down and kisses Harrow’s stomach. She can feel Harrow heave in the air and she smiles against soft skin. She can feel Harrow bear down around her fingers and she fucks Harrow until her forearm burns, thumbing Harrow’s clit until she shatters with a strangled sound.

* * *

When Harrow rolls bonelessly off Gideon, some of the urgency in the room subsides, a lull in the storm. Gideon’s not moving, breathing shallow, tense and still with her eyes screwed shut and her chin tipped back. “She was very good, wasn’t she?” Harrow asks Corona. “Do you want to keep her like this?”

Corona smiles, wicked. “No. She deserves a reward, too. Cam?”

Cam’s hands are still wet from Harrow. It’s the easiest thing in the world to slide inside Gideon where she’s drenched, where she’s barely been touched. Gideon is already right up against the edge, and in spite of all of Cam’s skill and all of Cam’s knowledge of Gideon’s body, she can’t draw it out past the sixth carefully-placed stroke before Gideon comes with a shout.

It’s all so impossibly _hot_ , and Cam can feel her blood pounding even as they settle Harrow into Gideon’s arms at the side of the bed, tucking them, wrung out and sated, under a blanket to watch with half-closed eyes.

Cor drags her in and kisses the taste of Harrow off her mouth, licks Gideon off her fingertips. “What do you say, Camilla Hect?” she asks at last, rolling her hips so her bones tap Cam’s. Her hands cup the shelf of Cam’s ass, proprietary and delightful. “You’ve got me now. What are you going to do?”

Cam _snarls_. She’d like to do the same thing right back to Cor, possibly using a few things from her drawer of goodies, but she’s too impatient and what she’s got right now are her hands and her mouth and a lot of built-up tension. She hits Cor low, the same way they’ve been practicing in the gym, and Cor tumbles back onto the bed.

None of her control is available now; her restraint is entirely beyond her reach. She spears two fingers into Cor, and when that isn’t quite enough friction, adds the third. Gets to feel Cor stretch for her, grind down against her. 

“ _Yes_ ,” says Cor, meeting every wild thrust with reckless abandon. 

Cam sinks her teeth into Cor’s thigh, Cor screams, and Cam’s vision goes red. There’s nothing left in the world but Corona’s molten core under her hands, Cor’s fingers pulling her hair, the sound of Cor’s voice filling the room.

Somehow, she manages to get her knees under her hips to propel herself up Cor’s body to press up against her, to pull her head down to kiss her face, to rake her teeth over the expanse of her chest, and apparently it’s a mistake because it allows Cor to get her hands on her, to push Cam’s jeans low on her thighs, pull one of those knees up, and get her fingers on Cam’s clit.

After that, it’s over for both of them. They chase each other, minds empty and hands full, until they fall together, Cam’s helpless groan harmonizing with Cor’s wailing scream.

Eventually, Cam manages to crack open her eyes and unstick her skin from Cor’s. Cor’s grinning down at her, well-fucked and smug as sin.

“Good reward?” She means to say it in a dry tone, but her voice rasps over the words.

“The best,” says Corona.

Somehow, Cam knows she’s not just talking about the sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Coronabeth


	27. N, O, P, (E): Ianthe Ruins Everything

With hockey back in season again, Gideon needs to find the time to play with her dog. Between the four of them, he gets lots of walkies, and they all spoil him with scratchies during movie night. It's not the same as a good game of fetch. 

When she puts the tennis ball in her coat pocket, Meatball bounds off. He's back with his leash before she can get her hat on.

"All right, boy," she says, rubbing his shoulders. "Let's see what Iago's up to." They can always go to the park if they have to, but the backyard's a lot more convenient and there’s less than an hour of twilight after work in December before it’s impossible to see the ball anymore.

The air bites at her cheeks when she steps outside. They’re in luck-- Corona is out with Iago’s leash, corralling the goat.

Or making an attempt, anyway. Iago has no interest in his leash today, it seems.

“Sit, boy,” says Gideon quietly to Meatball, considering the merits of tying Meatball’s leash to a tree so that she can help. He doesn’t mind when it’s autumn, and there are leaves to chase and squirrels to watch scamper through the upper tree branches, but at this time of year, the trees are bare.

Iago stomps on Cor’s toes, and Gideon winces in sympathy. “Sorry, Meatball,” she says, and hooks the leash around the tree with a hasty knot.

“Gideon!” says Corona. “Oh thank goodness. He’s in a mood today, and we need to take him to the groomer, and we’re out of treats.”

Gideon catches Iago’s harness and hangs on even as the rhinestones dig into her palms. She grits her teeth when Iago’s hooves descend on her sneakered feet. “Do you even need to get goats groomed?”

“Search me,” says Corona, snapping the hook of the leash onto the harness. It’s a lot easier with two. “But Ianthe made him an appointment.”

Corona has read at least three different books about goat care. She’s looked up article after article about how to keep them happy and healthy while Gideon kills zombies on the other side of the couch. She moves his shelter frequently so that he’s protected from the elements and has new branches to graze on and she brushes him at least once a month. Gideon barely ever sees Ianthe outside, ever.

“Are you okay?” asks Gideon.

“I’m fine,” says Corona. “Come on, Iago, we’re going to be late.”

Gideon holds the gate open so Corona can lead Iago to the Range Rover. “Good luck,” she says faintly.

* * *

It’s _nice_. Cor’s hit a lovely rhythm with her girlfriends and she’s entirely floating on the high of new relationships. Four nights of the week are spent at Cam’s place more often than not ending in Cor waking up to sleepy kisses in the morning. Gideon is much the same when it comes to affection, hers written all over her palms through casual touches and offering her help. Harrow is a little different, less conceding to touch as the others, but with her, time spent together feels more precious. Between sharing space, movie nights, D&D, hockey, and all the little things they do together, Corona feels like she’s finally carved out a space for herself here and settled in where it’s comfortable.

It all takes up time she’s more than willing to give up in her schedule, but it also means she has less time with Ianthe. So when Ianthe sends her text asking if she wants to spend the day shopping for the holidays just around the corner, Corona eagerly agrees. She takes time picking out a nice outfit. It feels special to have this moment with her sister now that they spend significantly less time together and it’s worth the effort.

They’re in the second stop of the day, a jewelry store with a guard at the door who greets them by name. Ianthe peruses casually, selecting pieces seemingly at random to try on.

“How is work?” Corona asks, peering into a case. Most of these pieces don’t feel like anything any of her girlfriends would wear, but there is a pair of black studs she points out to the woman behind the counter.

Ianthe hums, carefully fastening on a delicate piece around her neck. “Same as always. They’re all nitwits and if they were replaced by brainless creatures tomorrow, I probably wouldn’t notice.” She turns her head in the mirror, and then frowns when she sees the earrings being taken out. “Oh Corona, darling, put those back. Black is _not_ your colour.”

Corona carefully picks up the piercings, giving them a glance in the light. “They’re not for me. We’re Christmas present shopping, remember?” Ianthe raises an eyebrow that communicates everything in utter silence. “They’re for Harrow.”

Ianthe’s lip twitches ever so slightly, and then she unclips the necklace, setting it back down. “Hmm, let’s try that one.” The merchant goes to retrieve the bangle Ianthe pointed out and Corona feels Ianthe’s attention fall back on her. “I didn’t know the neighbor’s tastes ran so... high end.”

Corona hasn’t spent enough time with Harrow to know exactly where her jewelry price ranges lie, but the set in her palm is well within her budget for a single Christmas present. More than that though, Ianthe’s comment sits uncomfortably in Corona’s ears. “You don’t know her.”

Ianthe shrugs, making no move to counter the statement. The bangle gets delivered to her and she spends a few minutes in silence rotating it in her hands. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a very long time.”

That stings, because Corona has made time for almost all of their usual coffee dates, and it was _Ianthe_ who most recently cancelled for one of their Monday night dinners. She sets that aside to think about how the studs would look in Harrow’s ear, thinks about her other pieces, and then slides them back across the counter, unconvinced. “Well, I’ve been spending a lot of time with my girlfriends.”

Ianthe becomes the sort of silent that tells Corona she’s thinking. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable sort of silent. “Babs and I don’t spend this much time together,” she finally says.

“People can have different ways of doing their relationships, Ianthe,” Corona says carefully. “Mine just happens to be spending more time with the people I care about.”

Ianthe looks at her, taking off the bangle. “Am I not someone you care about?”

Cor huffs, feeling her shoulders drop in exasperation. It’s a deliberate misread. “Ianthe, that’s not--”

“No, see, here.” Ianthe pushes the jewelry back across the display case and leans on the glass slightly. “I don’t care who it is you’re spending your time with. Ideally, it would be people who are proper company for a Tridentarius, but you are free to make your own decisions. But Coronabeth, this family has given you so much and continues to offer you more than anyone could ever do. It’s a show of ungratefulness to throw it all away for three nobodies who like rubbing shoulders with you.”

This is demonstrably untrue. Cam, Gideon, and Harrow have all contributed to making Corona so much happier than she was two and a half years ago. They’ve introduced hockey into her life, they’ve given her friends and a garden and love. And yet, she can’t shape any of these ideas into words. “It’s not... it’s not like that.”

Ianthe shrugs. “I just think you deserve better than people who haven’t even tried to scratch anything below the surface.” That makes Corona recoil and Ianthe must see it. “You’re new and shiny to them, Coronabeth. When the gleam starts to wear off in their eyes, will they still want you around? You deserve so much better than temporary. Especially Cam. She’s so kind, she’s so sweet, but Corona, I’ve watched her watch you since the day they moved in. She had her eye on you and still she fucked the tall skinny man who lives with the goth neighbor, and then her own roommate. And when she gets her eye on someone else? I just don’t want you to get hurt, darling.”

Something hot and angry bubbles up in Corona’s stomach, but it’s stopped by a blockage in her throat she can’t seem to rid herself of. It seizes and overwhelms her. None of this is true. Cam and Palamedes have broken up. Cam’s told her why she was sleeping with Gideon. They’ve all cracked past the carefully constructed veneer and loved what was underneath. It’s all untrue. But Ianthe’s words ring loudly in her ears, they echo in her head. “No,” she breathes.

“I’d like to try that one.” Ianthe points at a ring and then sighs. “Corona, you’re allowed to make your own decisions. I’m your sister and I want you to have that freedom, but I also want the best for you. Do you believe that?”

Corona nods silently. She does. But gods, it hurts.

Ianthe looks at her with a pitying look on her face. “Then I’m going to warn you one more time. I told you when they first showed up that they want more than surface level. I don’t want to see you come crawling to me when they finally see past the money and the tits and realise there's nothing of substance underneath."

It feels like the spear through the side of her chest through both lungs and her heart has been twisted. It’s _agony_ and it feels so raw. She can feel her pulse racing under her skin and there’s a sudden lethargy in her limbs. They feel like they’re falling asleep and she rubs at her joints carefully.

Ianthe tries the ring and then sighs. “No, not today. Perhaps we should move on,” she says loudly and the jewelry is returned back to the cases. “Corona, what would be your ideal Christmas present?” It’s asked like she hadn’t just utterly shattered Corona’s heart. Like nothing had happened.

“I... I don’t know,” Corona says, keeping the croak out of her voice. “You?”

Ianthe shrugs as they leave the store. “I think Babs is going to propose.”

Corona doesn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

* * *

It’s after dinner on a Sunday, and Cam has a handful of emails left to get through before Monday morning. The past week has been flat-out awful: the holidays are coming up, and, as usual, they want to wrap as many cases up so that families can have the holidays together in the best-possible situation.

Somehow, Cam’s ended up working on three domestic-violence cases at once. One of her clients keeps considering going back to their abusive partner with their three-year-old, under pressure from their parents. There’s not enough Cam can do to help. The temporary restraining order she secured for them is only paper.

Worse, Cam’s worried about Cor. She’s been quiet all evening. When Gideon headed out to give Meatball an extra walk to burn off some of the restless energy they both have without the barbecues tiring them out every weekend, she barely said anything. Harrow disappeared shortly thereafter into the wood shed, where she’s working feverishly on an undisclosed project, and Cor just stared into her glass of wine. According to Harrow, Gideon is temporarily banned from the shed until it’s finished. (Cam had thought Gideon would put up more of a fight about that, but then Harrow had said “please?” and Gideon had tugged on her lanyard, unhooked her own shed key from her carabiner, and passed it over.)

So it’s bad, and it’s only getting worse. She needs to get these cases out of her brain for the night so she can give Corona the attention she deserves. (She has a couple of specific ideas that she’s been rolling around in her head since the night after that hockey game. It’s how she spends her breaks at work: thinking of Cor or of the four of them together, of the ways she can show that she’s so damn grateful to have all of them even when she’s busy.)

In spite of her best efforts, it’s already past nine when she manages to close her laptop. Cor’s staring into space on Gideon’s side of the couch. She hasn’t even put her feet on Cam’s lap.

It takes all of Cam’s effort not to let the full extent of her worry show. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” says Corona, staring into the middle distance. The look on her face is the blankest Cam has ever seen, worse even than during the Babs incident.

She’s reasonably secure it’s nothing she’s done, and if she can’t figure it out tonight she’ll ask Gideon and Harrow-- but there’s only one person who gets this deeply under Cor’s skin. She shifts over on the sofa so that she can slide her hand into Cor’s. “Did Ianthe do something?” 

Stormclouds roll over Cor’s face, and Cam can tell she’s scored a hit. 

“She’s my sister,” says Corona, which has nothing to do with anything. “She loves me.”

Cam thinks of her caseload, of the things she’s seen people do to the people they’re supposed to love. “Are you sure--” she begins, in her best conciliatory tone.

“She’s just looking out for me,” snarls Corona, in a tone Cam’s never heard from her before. “I have to go.”

“Cor--”

“She’s my _sister_. I won't betray her!” Corona snatches her hand away from Cam’s and darts across the room as if Cam’s stung her. Her expression is cold and cruel. “I don’t expect you to understand. You moved across the country and abandoned _your_ family. But I’m a Tridentarius.”

That doesn’t make any sense, but Cam can’t think of a single thing to say that won’t make everything worse. The back door slams shut and Cam stares emptily into the hallway Cor disappeared down.

* * *

Harrow is stuck on her project. The wood shed isn’t quite big enough for both nightstands, and she can’t bring it outside without ruining the surprise. What she really needs is someone taller to help her stack up some of the existing furniture. Gideon is out of the house and therefore out of the question, even if the nightstands weren’t a Christmas present for her. Cam could help, but Harrow saw how she worried her lip between her teeth earlier the way she only does when she’s feeling the pressure of work.

The flash of gold hair catches her eye out of the shed window. Corona would be the perfect helper. Harrow steps out of the shed, and frowns. She squints, reading the line of Cor’s shoulders. An equal sense of dread and horror fills her gut and she _runs_.

Her feet must make too much noise on the grass because Corona whips her head around to look at her. “I can’t deal with you right now,” Corona spits. 

It stops Harrow in her tracks and Corona bolts for the Tridentarius door. In the backyard floodlights, Harrow catches a glimpse of too-bright purple eyes. She’s crying.

Harrow reaches out a hand and opens her mouth to say something, but Corona disappears into her house and whatever words Harrow had hoped to say die on her lips. She’s left standing in the stinging cold of the evening air, utterly confused and with her hands achingly empty.

* * *

“Good boy, Meatball!” says Gideon, giving him a scratch and a tussle before loosing him on the house after their walk. Her body feels good, her cheeks windswept and pink from the cold air outside. It’s almost bedtime, but bedtime is better these days. “We’re back!”

No one answers her. There aren’t any lights on downstairs. “Cam?” she calls out, walking through the downstairs, flicking switches as she goes. “Cor?” It’s late, though. She tries to comfort herself-- maybe they’ve gone to bed early. Cam was definitely giving Corona some speculative looks over the dinner table. Unusually, Cor hadn’t reciprocated, but they’re in the runup to the holiday season and everyone’s busy.

She looks out the back-- no lights in the yard, no glimmer from the shed. “Harrow?” she calls. There’s still no answer.

Cam’s bedroom door is firmly shut. There’s no light under the door, none of the noises Corona always makes. (Once, Corona was quieter. That was before she’d learned that the noises short-circuit Cam’s brain, and then she got _really loud_.)

There’s no Harrow curled under the covers with a book in Gideon’s bedroom, either.

Gideon doesn’t see the point in going downstairs to play video games on an empty couch. All three of her girlfriends have made themselves pointedly scarce, and she can respect that boundary. She goes to bed early.

Harrow doesn’t come back until she’s already asleep.

* * *

When Corona emerges from her bedroom with red-rimmed eyes, Ianthe is waiting for her with her arms open. Corona lets herself fall into them, lets her sister catch her, lets herself drown in the familiar comfort she’s known all her life.

“Oh, honey,” says Ianthe, stroking Corona’s hair. “I knew it was going to happen. It’s okay. You still have me.”


	28. Q: Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood, not graphic

Cam opens the front door to a quiet house. Gideon’s gone to join Harrow, who’s still out with Meatball. There’s no one else in the building.

She isn’t expecting Corona to be there, anyway. It’s Monday, and on Mondays, Cor has dinner with Ianthe and comes home afterward. It’s just that they left things off on such an unresolved note. Cam’s _love you, good night_ text had gone unanswered.

Corona’s just busy. Cam can change into loungewear, get some work done, and have dinner with Gideon and Harrow, the same as always. Cor will be there in time for bed. Maybe she’ll grab a quick workout to burn off all this nervous energy. She strips off her work clothes as she goes upstairs, hanging them over her arm. Her bra slithers off the pile, and she chucks it into her room, letting it impact and slide down the wall. 

Except, when she opens the door, there’s an empty spot in the closet that was always too big for her, until Corona had asked to move “just a few outfits” in. 

They’re gone now. It leaves cavernous, yawning empty depths, and Cam thinks that maybe if she yelled it would echo against the walls.

She does not yell. She just stands there, naked, staring at the gaping holes that Coronabeth has left behind.

* * *

Cam’s still standing there when Gideon shouts from downstairs. She can’t make out any of the words, but she knows Gideon’s tone of voice, and that means it’s important. If she doesn’t go down, Gideon will come up to find her.

She grabs the first top she finds, athletic shorts even though her legs feel like jelly, drags them on, and makes her wobbly way down the stairs.

In the living room, Gideon slumps on the sofa. Harrow stands, rigid and upright, across the room in front of the silent, dark television. 

“What happened?” asks Cam, already dreading the answer.

In response, Gideon holds out a crumpled envelope. Cam has to cross the room to it, to the sofa where Cor isn’t.

The note is on pale lavender cardstock with scalloped edges, in Corona’s looping handwriting. _I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore._

The envelope is still heavy. Cam upends it and Cor’s key falls into her lap. She can’t even pretend it’s something else: its head is decorated with the violet nail polish Cor wears at least once a month, sealed with a gold fleck coat. It’s Corona’s key to their house, and she’s given it up. 

Cam lets herself fall back onto the sofa, clutching the key in her hand so that the teeth bite into her palm.

* * *

Harrow edges carefully towards the exit when Gideon reaches out for Cam, trying to offer her comfort. Gideon had started trying to touch Harrow, back when they’d found the letter, back when Harrow had gotten confirmation of everything she’d ever been afraid of.

“It's going to be okay. She's just hurt. We can work this out.” Gideon is murmuring nonsense, as if she can will things to become all right when they aren’t. It’s ridiculous. They can’t. 

She has to make it _stop_ , because she can’t afford false hope. “What did you expect?” Her tone snaps out like a whip.

Gideon startles, her back impacting the sofa cushions. “What do you mean?”

Harrow sneers. The alternatives hurt too much. “Corona has always been out of our league. I'm surprised this lasted as long as it did.”

This stirs Gideon into action, off the couch, onto her feet. Angry. An improvement. The sole service Harrow can do for her when her heart aches like this. “How can you say that?”

Emotion carries her forward, buoys up her words until they spill forth. “Because it's true, Griddle! Because she's finally realized that she has better things to do with her time than cope with us!”

A deep quiet falls over the room, like a thin layer of fluffy white snow that consumes all sound and conceals a layer of black ice. Deceptive and cold and dangerous.

She’s said too much, betrayed too much, and Cam’s sitting there on the sofa, staring into space and not saying anything at all. This is just like every family she’s ever thought she’d had, broken because Harrow couldn’t manage to control herself properly. She’s overshot again. Her muscles tense.

Gideon has a talent for seeing bodies and the secrets they betray. “Wait!” she says, and that’s enough for Harrow to run.

She makes it outside, barely, the cold December biting at her cheeks. Frost soaks through her socks. Her coat and shoes are still inside, and she can’t afford to go back for them. The back door has already slowed her down too much.

Toes bare against the frozen ground, Gideon bursts out after her. It’s no contest: Gideon’s arms wrap around her like iron bands, and Harrow comes up off her feet.

She makes her voice colder than the ambient temperature. “Let. Go.” 

Gideon pulls her closer, to murmur into her hair. “No, you're worth it, you're worth it, I can't lose you too.”

From somewhere very far away, she knows vaguely that this meant as comfort, that Gideon has caught her up in the kind of hug she likes when she doesn’t urgently need to be alone. “I said, let go!”

Intention means nothing to the hot red panic welling up inside her. She lashes out, teeth and nails and desperation, and Gideon cries out and lets go.

It doesn’t matter, because Harrow is free. She runs and does not stop until she’s back in the bedroom she hasn’t slept in for weeks.

* * *

Gideon knows every minute she stands barefoot on the cold ground increases her chances of frostbite. It still takes her an age to stir her muscles into action, to turn her back on the Sextus-Nonagesimus house and go back inside.

There’s blood running down her arm from where Harrow’s nails dug in. Her bicep throbs where Harrow bit her.

Cam is still on the couch. She hasn’t moved.

Gideon waves her non-injured arm in front of Cam’s face. “Cam?”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, doesn’t move her eyes from their fixed point. Her knuckles are white.

If Cam’s incapacitated, Gideon knows how to take care of herself. She’s bleeding, there’s a risk of infection, and she knows first aid. She keeps a well-stocked kit in her hockey bag with supplies to refill it in her bathroom. 

It’s not hard to wash out the places where Harrow broke skin, streaks of blood swirling down into the sink. Applying antibacterial ointment is a piece of cake. Bandaging the wounds alone is a little awkward, but Gideon has managed on her own before, and she manages now.

The hard part comes when she’s stowed all her supplies away in neat rows in their homes, when she has to sit down in her empty room and think about what’s happened.

She made her bed that morning, the same way she always does. Smoothed over the dent Harrow’s body had made in the sheets, secure that Harrow would be back to make a new dent, the same way she’d been there every night for weeks.

She’d been such a damn fool.

* * *

Palamedes shakes Harrow awake at three o’clock in the morning. It’s not unusual for him to be up.

It’s not unusual for her to be up at this hour, either, but lately, she’s been going to bed at the same time every night, because Gideon does. She ends up crawling under the covers at ten or eleven, tucking her cheek against Gideon’s shoulder, and falling asleep to the rhythm of Gideon’s heartbeat.

Her sheets are soaked with cold sweat. She doesn’t want him here while she copes with that. “What do you want?”

He shrugs. “You were screaming.”

“I’m fine.” She glares at him until he pushes his glasses up his nose and leaves her alone to strip her bed in peace, to retrieve the fresh sheets from her bedroom closet, to put in a furtive load of laundry in the middle of the night.

Harrow hasn’t screamed in years. 

* * *

Practice is a mess from the moment Gideon gets there. She can guess why. She pulls up in Cam’s car instead of the Range Rover, Coronabeth is conspicuously missing from her side, and Gideon’s sure her expression isn’t helping anyone either.

“Hey Gideon?” One of the rookies asks when they’re getting ready in the locker room. “Where’s--”

“Hey freshie, come here for a second.” Marie beckons the player over and shoots Gideon a little smile. It’s tinged with what might be pity.

Gideon pulls on her skate laces harder.

It doesn’t get better on the ice. Without Corona, the whole team is taking shots at Jessie. It slows down practice and there’s no escape from the curious glances Gideon can feel through the cage of her helmet. 

Her shots aren’t good either. She loads each one with the frustration and confusion that have been swirling in her mind and the pucks launch off her blade at uncontrolled angles, pinging angrily off posts, boards, and Jessie’s pads.

Halfway through, coach Adrienne calls a water break and Gideon parks herself on the bench and drinks from her bottle, frustrated. She can still feel the glances, but the veterans are doing their job corralling the other players and giving Gideon space. 

She’s thankful for that. But it also makes the conversation happening a few feet to the right easier to hear. Ashley’s sitting on the boards, legs swinging, while Jessie skates little circles on the ice.

“What if you hurt yourself again?”

Jessie shrugs. “If she doesn’t come back, I know someone who wants to play. I’ll give her a call.”

It’s obvious who they’re talking about, and Gideon feels anger bubble in her stomach. This is Cor’s hockey team too. Or at least, it was. She doesn’t know if Corona still wants to play with them. The anger cools into rocks in her stomach and she stands up abruptly, swinging her legs over the bench and gliding out onto the ice. There’s a puck sitting out at centre ice and she skates towards it, hooks it with her stick, and winds up a slapshot towards the empty net. 

It sails a few inches to the left and Gideon grabs another one, winds up, sends it down with a grunt. For a moment, it’s just her and the half dozen pucks still at her skates. Just her and the numbness in her chest she’s been feeling for the past two days turned into aggression and taken out on the pucks. They bounce along the ice, thwack against the boards, catch against the netting.

“Nav,” Coach Adrienne calls from the side of the rink. “Come in.”

Gideon looks up, and the team is looking back. Marta’s helmet is off and her expression is a strange mix of stricken and disappointed. 

It just adds to the weight in Gideon’s stomach. 

She skates over to coach and pulls her helmet off, forgoing her usual comb of gloved fingers over sweat-mussed hair. “What’s up, Coach?”

Coach Adrienne looks over at the other players. “Set up for 5 on 4 drills, please?” She doesn’t turn back until the others have cleared the area. “You’re done for the day, Nav.”

“What? No.” Gideon waves her hand over to where her teammates are setting up. “It’s power plays. I love power plays.”

Adrienne shakes her head. “Nav, I have no idea what’s going on between you and Coronabeth, and I really hope you two sort it out. I’d love to have both of you on the team. Losing one of you is bad enough, I won’t let you throw practice for the rest of the team. You’re playing poorly and you’re scaring the rookies. You’re done.”

Gideon looks away and sighs, eyes closing. She knows Adrienne is right, and that ice time isn’t going to do her or the team any better. It stings though. She should be able to compartmentalize better than this. These aren’t her teammates’ problems. “Sorry, Coach.”

Adrienne claps her hand on Gideon’s padded shoulder. “Hey, the team’s here for you. And when you’re ready, we want you here for us too.”

Gideon nods and heads to the locker room.

* * *

The coffee shop is decked out for Christmas. Holly-wreathed bells jingle cheerfully anytime anyone enters or exits, offsetting the blast of frosty air that hits the tables closest to the door.

Across from Ianthe at a two-top, Corona prods her salted maple latte, destroying the smiling snowman art the barista had drawn in the foam on top.

By unspoken mutual agreement, they’re not talking about Babs, though Corona knows that Ianthe had gone ring shopping with him the previous evening, when Corona herself should have been at hockey practice. She didn’t go. She couldn’t face up to seeing Gideon, so she overheard when Ianthe had gotten home and called one of her friends to gush.

Instead, they’re talking about their schedule for the holiday season. They have plans to attend a charity gala, and Corona needs a new dress. Something festive. “A velvet capelet?” she suggests, pushing her phone over to Ianthe to show her the one she’d seen in a boutique.

Skeptically, Ianthe studies it. “With a skirt that short? If you’re sure, sweetheart…”

Corona has been wearing outfits designed to draw attention for years, but if this one is too much, she can reconsider. The gala is for charity, and she doesn’t want to hurt her reputation. She sighs and deletes the picture.

* * *

Corona is late. It’s not a surprise to Harrow-- everyone in their group has been feeling her absence like a missing limb. It’s been all of a month that the four of them have been together, but even if they weren’t together, they’ve all been a part of each other’s lives for so much longer and suddenly not having Corona feels strange. 

Palamedes, though, looks thoroughly confused. “She didn’t tell any of you that she wasn’t going to be coming today, did she?”

Harrow glances around the table. Gideon shakes her head a little, and Cam’s eyes are cast towards the ground. It’s been uncharacteristically quiet all evening. Even the snack dragon has barely been touched. The unspoken understanding is that none of them expect Corona to be here. Cam’s been relatively quiet about whatever happened in the house, and Harrow can respect that. It hurts them all but the hurt rings louder in the emptiness in Cam’s eyes. Like she’s playing it all in her head again in the silence and seeing where she went wrong. 

“No,” Harrow says, half to answer Palamedes’s question, half to startle Cam out of her stupor. 

Palamedes pushes his glasses up and they stick to the bridge of his nose uncomfortably. He takes them off, wipes the lenses clear, and then puts them back on his nose. “Okay,” he says, and then opens his notes. “Then maybe we’ll begin and--”

The front door opens loudly and everyone’s heads swivel towards the hall. A moment later, Corona blows in with a press-conference smile. “Hi, I’m _so_ sorry. I was spending time with my family and we got held up.”

It’s the first time any of them have seen Corona since Sunday, when Corona abruptly left the middle house. She looks... as normal as ever. The outfit is tasteful if flirtatious, her hair is down, her nails done.

Corona must catch Harrow looking at her hands because she beams, presenting a near-immaculate veneer, and flashes her nails. “Aren’t they pretty?” she asks as if Gideon isn’t giving her a hopeful smile, as if Cam isn’t refusing to meet her eyes, if Palamedes isn’t confused to hell and back. “I got them done with Ianthe yesterday. We had so much fun.”

If the way Corona is laying on the praise for her sister means anything, Harrow has some dark suspicions about where the sudden 180 came from. She files this information into her head and she nods. “They look good.”

Palamedes clears his throat. “Well if we’re all here, shall we begin?”

Harrow allows herself to hope that perhaps the game will let Corona relax enough that her genuine smile comes out. The one she’s so familiar with after two years and then some of movie nights, of barbeques, of morning glances over coffee mugs and book spines. 

Instead, Corona is just as cold an hour in as she was when she first arrived. The smile helps, but it’s plastic and there’s no sign of the warmth that normally makes happiness bloom in Harrow’s chest. It’s gone. As if it was never there in the first place. None of the roleplay has any of the chemistry it did even just last week, and Corona stops almost everything directed at her before it even has a chance to lift off into meaningful dialogue.

Everything feels absolutely agonizing. It’s been an hour but it feels like three. 

Finally, Palamedes takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He sighs. “Do we want a break? Maybe we should take an early break and--”

“I need to go, actually,” Corona cuts in. It may rank as one of the worst things she could have possibly done because Harrow feels the entire table’s morale drop through the floor.

“Oh?” Cam asks, voice surprisingly put together for the layers of heartbreak thinly veiled on her face. “What to?”

Corona collects her dice and her character binder. “It’s just-- I need to figure some things out. I’m sorry. I should have cancelled this week.”

The answer settles uncomfortably in Harrow’s stomach.

“Should we expect you next week?” Palamedes asks, looking a little distraught at the thought of losing a player. He has no idea. It makes this all the worse.

“I don’t know,” Corona says. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Cam’s expression is largely empty until Corona’s foot hits the threshold of the game room. Only then does she muster up a single syllable. “Cor...”

“Mmhm?” Cor smiles, glittering and fake.

“Is that what you want?”

There’s a moment of hesitation in purple eyes, and for a moment Harrow hopes. Then, the plastic of her expression turns cold without a single muscle twitching. “I’m sure. Have a good evening.”

Cam very carefully puts her head in her hands and remains painfully silent while Corona leaves. She makes no effort to stop her, and more than anything, that is what hurts Harrow.

“I... don’t suppose we’ll keep playing tonight?” Palamedes says, sounding like a man with all the wind taken out of his sails.

“I’m sorry, Palamedes.” Gideon sounds equally tired.

Harrow picks up her d20 and rotates it soundlessly in her hand. It was a gift from Corona from the last holiday season. They quickly become Harrow’s favourite set, but now the skull logo stamped where the 1 should be just laughs mockingly back at her.

* * *

It’s Friday night, and Gideon is considering doing something drastic. Cam has spent the past week closeted away in the spare room instead of on the couch downstairs. Gideon is trying to give her space, but Harrow hasn’t come over for a week, either. She’s lonely and bored.

She’s tried doing sit-ups to make the time go away. It isn’t working, not when every time she goes down to the gym, she can feel only the places where Cam should be to spot her, where Corona should be laughing from across the gym, where Harrow should be skulking along the edges of the room with a book, pretending she’s not watching.

Their absence is so palpable after their constant presence, especially now that it’s been nearly a week. The longest she’s seen any of them was at their highly truncated D&D session, one of the weirdest and most uncomfortable hours she’s ever had with that particular group of people-- the people who she loves best.

There’s a knock on the back door, even though Harrow doesn’t have to knock. She’s had a key for months and months, from when she was just helping walk their dog.

Gideon lets her in with enormous relief. Even _seeing_ Harrow’s face is a balm for her pinched and wrung-out soul. She goes in for the hug, and Harrow holds up her hand. It stops Gideon dead in her tracks.

The bruise Harrow’s teeth left in her shoulder has faded. Gideon touches the place where it was. “What’s up?” she asks at last, when Harrow just stands there, silent, with barely enough space for the door to close behind her.

Harrow shakes her head, a tiny, tight movement. “I just came to give you this.”

Automatically, Gideon looks down. Harrow is holding out a key. Bile rises in Gideon’s throat. “Harrow--”

“I’ve trespassed too much on your life,” Harrow says.

“You’re invited to trespass in my life.” Gideon puts her hand in her hair, hair that Harrow cuts every third Wednesday. She would have cut it on Wednesday, if she’d come over then. But she hadn’t.

She reaches out, just to feel the brush of Harrow’s fingers against hers. 

Harrow thrusts the key into Gideon’s palm and backs away out the door. Faint lines appear and disappear on her forehead, flickering between Harrow’s eyebrows.

Gideon wants to kiss them until Harrow’s brow smooths and she relaxes in Gideon’s arms. But she can’t make Harrow stay, not if Harrow doesn’t want to be here. “Meatball will miss you,” she says instead.

Harrow gives a curt nod, but she doesn’t stop.

* * *

Cam needs to put her life back together. She skipped dance on Wednesday, unable to muster the motivation to even change clothes after work.

Now it’s Saturday morning, and it’s long past time she stopped wallowing. She’s lived without Coronabeth Tridentarius for the bulk of her adult life. She’s owned this house for two full years without a girlfriend. She’s hot, she’s young, and she has an excellent career. Sulking about it won’t solve anything, so she puts on her yoga pants and heads downstairs.

Usually, Gideon beats her there, has gotten through warmup and at least one set by the time she wakes up and makes it down.

The gym is empty. Maybe Gideon slept in. She rolls her shoulders back and starts her usual warm-up.

Halfway into a plank, the door opens. Gideon walks in, wearing jeans and sunglasses. She’s holding a pair of boots in her hands, instead of her sneakers, and she’s got a heavy duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

Cam pops to her feet when the timer goes. “Are we not working out today?” she asks. She needs this, needs one piece of normalcy.

“Cam,” says Gideon. Her voice is thick. “I need to go.”

“Can I help?” Cam doesn’t know where Gideon needs to go. They have all the groceries they need. 

Gideon shakes her head. “I’m in the way here. I’m going to stay with some friends for a little while.”

She laces up her boots in silence, walks her bike out of the garage onto the cold, dry streets. The door closes behind her.

Cam doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream or shout as she walks into the house, locking the empty gym away behind her. Her face is as still and as calm as a pond in winter.

She stays serene as she walks up the stairs, pulls the blankets around herself, and closes her eyes. She isn’t tired, but she naps anyway.


	29. R: Fixing It

“You can’t run from this forever,” says Marta a few days later, over dinner on Wednesday night. It’s strange to cook in someone else’s kitchen, with someone else’s knives and someone else’s cupboards, but it’s the least Gideon can do since her teammates are letting her crash on their couch. Technically, it’s a guest bedroom; there’s a bed with sheets and everything. In spite of Judith and Marta’s hospitality, it’s still the worst sleep Gideon’s had since grade seven, on an uncertain and uncomfortable night she’d spent on the floor. That was before she finally got moved to live with Abigail and Magnus. 

“Not that we’re complaining about the food,” Judith puts in. It’s pork chops stuffed with apples, paired up with balsamic-glazed asparagus. Gideon had meant to make fresh rolls to go with it, the way Corona had taught her, but the memory of Corona’s hands on hers, showing her how to shape the dough, hurts too much. She makes squash instead. It’s healthier, anyway.

“It’s good to have you here, Gideon.” Marta puts her hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “But this can’t be permanent. We’re worried about you.” She doesn’t say that she’s worried about Corona, too, but Gideon can tell.

“I’m going to D&D with them a week from tomorrow unless Palamedes cancels again,” says Gideon. “And if things aren’t better, I’ll start apartment-hunting.” She hasn’t texted any of her girlfriends since she’d left the house. If she can even still call them her girlfriends.

The memory of the empty rooms of Cam’s house aches in her chest. The loneliness haunts her here, the places where Cam should have cracked a deadpan joke, where Cor should have posed outrageously, where Harrow should have stood at a carefully-calculated distance from her shoulder. Gideon has known for years that there’s no way to fix a relationship when the other people in it don’t care enough to even show up.

It hurts so much that she’s turned her phone off, making only brief exceptions to send essential text messages. Right now, it’s rattling around in the bottom of her laptop case, where she doesn’t even have to look at it. She doesn’t want to talk to any of them. She doesn’t know what to say.

Rather than tell Judith and Marta that she’s already started making a list of possible apartments, she starts clearing the table.

* * *

Meatball whines as Palamedes takes the leash off its hook. It’s the fourth day he’s walked the dog in the afternoon.

Cam had asked him for help on the days that she can’t get home in time. It really isn’t that much of an imposition. She so rarely asks for anything.

He clips the leash onto Meatball’s harness. Instead of bounding out the door, the pitbull drops onto his haunches. Gideon could lift him bodily if she were here, but none of them have seen her in days. He hasn’t mentioned that Gideon sent him a single terse text message, acknowledging he’s canceled D&D to avoid a repeat of the previous week’s terrible session. Cor has vanished, too, and though he’s seen Harrow and Cam, they've both been so stony he hasn’t dared say a word to either of them. He suspects it would only make it worse.

“I’m working on it,” he says, scratching behind Meatball’s ears, trying to comfort him. “It’s not your fault. They’re fighting, and Harrow doesn’t want to impose.”

Meatball’s ears perk at Harrow’s name. He looks expectantly at the door.

“Sorry, buddy,” says Palamedes. The dog gives him a reproachful stare when Harrow fails to materialize.

He tugs on the leash. Meatball refuses to move. Sighing, Palamedes takes Harrow’s enormous sun hat off its hook and puts it on his head. It’s overcast, and Meatball doesn’t look convinced, but apparently, this is enough to assuage the worst of his concerns. The dog consents to be taken on his walk.

Palamedes really hopes that the four of them work it out soon.

* * *

_She won’t answer my texts_.

Cam stares at her phone. It’s the first personal message she’s gotten in a week from any of her neighbors, and it’s from Harrow. It’s not exactly the text she wanted, and neither is it a text she expected. But it’s _something_ , a notification tone that she hasn’t heard in nearly two weeks. She thinks about texting Gideon again. About texting Cor. But she’s texted both of them three times, and at this point, it’s just pathetic.

She texts Harrow back instead. _She won’t answer any of mine, either_.

 _Come over_ , Harrow texts.

And why not? It’s Thursday, D&D day, and it’s not like Cam has anything better planned. Her house is so _empty_. The sofa has imprints from where the four of them usually sit, and she can’t even walk into the living room without unwelcome emotion welling in her chest. She’s spent too long staring at the ceiling of the guest bedroom, pretending she can focus well enough to read when it’s too quiet in the house.

There are still a pair of Gideon’s sneakers by the back door, neatly lined up just inside the threshold. Cam stares at them. They’re too big for her. She slips them on anyway. She wishes Gideon would come home.

* * *

Cam lets herself in the back next door. It’s unlocked.

“I’m sorry,” says Palamedes, from behind the comfortable pile of books that he’s spread out in the kitchen. There’s a paper takeout container of noodles at his elbow, but it looks mostly untouched.

That only makes it worse. “Thanks,” says Cam, and heads the rest of the way upstairs to Harrow’s room.

When she gets there, she finds that Harrow’s scleras are pink with lack of sleep. “How do we fix it?” Harrow demands. 

Temper flares, and it feels good. “I don’t know! Maybe you broke it!"

" _I_ broke it?" Harrow draws herself up. "Corona was with _you_ when you sent her off in tears."

"There was nothing I could do!" Cam snaps. "She wasn't even listening to me! She was listening--"

Harrow stops, dead still, in the center of the room. "To whom?"

"To Ianthe," says Cam. "I should have guessed. I should have _protected_ her."

"How?" asks Harrow, voice flat. "Coronabeth has always seen Ianthe as important to her."

"But even without her, I want Gideon back." Cam realizes who she's said this to, and winces.

"Gideon just left?" Harrow is probing for information that Cam patently _does not have_.

"She left your key on the kitchen table," Cam says, pointedly. "You know how Gideon is about keys."

“How was I supposed to keep a key when everything is broken?” Harrow subsides onto the bed, exhausted. “How could any of you want me, when I lost you Coronabeth?”

“Harrow, you didn’t.” Cam reaches out, not touching, just offering her hands to Harrow. “It was Ianthe. And we can’t do anything to make Corona come back, not unless she decides she wants to.”

Harrow hesitates, her palms hovering inches from Cam’s.

Emboldened, Cam goes on. “You’re important to me. We were playing D&D together before Corona joined us.”

At last, Harrow takes Cam’s hands, and then, all at once, Cam has an armful of bones that contains far too many elbows and knees. Abjectly grateful, she presses her cheek to Harrow’s hair.

“I need to make it up to Gideon,” Harrow says at last, firmly, as if once Gideon is secured in place, all the other puzzle pieces will come together.

“Yes, but _how_?” Cam says. Gideon hasn’t let Cam see her at all. On Monday evening, Cam had come home to find Gideon’s hockey gear abruptly missing from its nook. Nothing else had been touched. 

The silence stretches between them, like they’re the only two people stranded in a lifeboat, like they can rely only upon each other to row hundreds of miles to shore. The only thing that gives her any hope at all is the fact that Gideon still has her key.

Finally, Harrow breaks the silence. "There is one place I know she'll be," she says, meditatively. "The Cavaliers have a game tomorrow."

"Will she go?" asks Cam. Even as the words leave her mouth, she knows the answer. Gideon hasn't missed a hockey game, except for injury, in all the years they've been friends. "What do you propose?"

* * *

Gideon blinks hard when she sees a flash of blonde hair approach where they’re warming up on the ice. Corona is unmistakable, even bigger than she normally is in skates and gear. 

She comes out of the tunnel and adjusts her helmet over her head, skating out towards the net to swap out places with Jessie. 

Her posture means she takes up far more space than even her body would suggest, filling out the net with incandescent confidence. Gideon misses her with ferocious intensity.

She should have expected it when no one had to draw straws at practice to play backup goaltender on Tuesday, even though Cor wasn’t there. At least she’d managed to finish out the practice with grace, which is good, because she’d caught a ride with Judith and Marta. Sitting out in the cold waiting for the captains to make it out of practice would have seriously sucked.

It doesn’t make it any easier to have Corona here now, bright and polished to the rest of the team. The temperature drops palpably when Gideon skates near her, but Corona is being perfectly well-behaved, returning Gideon’s nods of acknowledgement. Gideon can’t complain, even as the ache spreads like an oil slick, greasy and suffocating.

She’s trying not to make it weird. Corona is entitled to be here. She’s _glad_ , really; their team is stronger for Corona’s presence.

“Nav!” Beth sends a puck towards Gideon’s stick and Gideon’s mind jumps straight back into the warmup drill, firing the puck towards Corona in net.

The pain gets worse after the game starts. Corona’s there at the bench gate for every line change, cool and polite and cordial. But Gideon knows how to play on through pain.

Their frosty interaction is at odds with Corona’s eyes on her when she skates, and it spurs her on. Dark tendrils of competition grow over her tendons and bones, sharpening her movements into beautiful honed lines.

When they’d gotten together, the way Gideon had felt Cor’s eyes changed. It had taken that explicit declaration for Gideon to realize that Corona had wanted her, that the watching that she did _meant_ something. These eyes feel the same, and as Cor watches her from across the bench when the next shift goes, Gideon realizes that Cor still finds her _hot_.

Gideon doesn’t _understand_. She hasn’t heard from her since that terrible Sunday when she’d come inside and found no one there.

What she understands even less, though, is when she’s looking away from Corona’s icy politeness and spies a pointy face in the stands. Harrow’s hat is jammed on hard over her ears, a scarf covers most of her face, and her winter jacket and mittens obscure even the shape of her body. Gideon would know her anywhere.

Harrow has been to exactly one game, and Gideon can’t think about that evening because it hurts too much to remember how happy they were. On the other hand, Cam’s been to every game this season where there’s even half a chance Cor will see ice time.

She can’t work out what it _means_ , and then she needs to get her head back in the game, because Coach Adrienne is calling for a line change.

The next time she comes off the ice, she cranes her neck to search the stand. No evidence of Cam. None of this makes any _sense_. Not even when Harrow manages to bore holes through her helmet and the plex barrier to catch her eyes in a very Harrowhark stare.

It takes all her breath, and she sets the thoughts aside again, more completely this time. She can’t sort through this and play hockey at the same time. She misses them all so much.

* * *

After the game, Gideon struggles out of her gear as quickly as she can, slips out the side to see if she can find Harrow in the stands.

Harrow is already gone. Gideon heads back to the locker room for the post-game team huddle.

She can’t understand a word that Adrienne says, not with Corona standing across the room very carefully not looking at her, not with the mysterious vanishing presence of her maybe-girlfriend.

For the first time in a full week, she begins to wonder if it’s possible to fix it.

* * *

On Sunday, Corona stands at the counter, staring blankly at the list of drinks. Nothing appeals to her. It’s been days since anything tasted good.

She ends up ordering a large black coffee, hot, with two shots of espresso in it. She sips and it’s bitter. Cam, who likes coffee as more than a vehicle for cream and sugar, might appreciate it. Corona doesn’t, but she doesn’t want to go back and ask for sugar. It’s fine.

She walks towards the tables and takes a seat by the windows, across from her sister. Ianthe smiles at her like a fox. 

“I like the ensemble today,” Ianthe says, taking a sip of her drink. 

Corona looks down at the long coat folded over her arm, the blouse buttoned high above utterly sensible, if form-fitting, jeans. “Oh, thank you.” Usually the praise feels good around her shoulders and makes her preen. But she had picked this outfit with Ianthe in mind, that last comment about the capelet scraping over her mind. It’s fine, but it doesn’t feel quite right.

Ianthe nods, setting down her drink. There’s music playing out of the speakers in the cafe and one of the walls has been turned into a red and green shrine to facilitate social-media ready photo ops.

Corona sips at her drink. It scalds her tongue. A couple at the next table have matching iced-coffee drinks, festooned with whipped cream and red-and-green sprinkles. Those look good. Corona doesn’t have the heart to get up and get one for herself.

Ianthe pays Corona’s conundrum no mind. “Isn’t this better?” she asks, sighing contently. “It must be nice, now that you’re spending time with someone who cares about you.”

It feels like a sledgehammer punching violently through glass. It sounds like cracking and shattering in a room filled with darkness, devoid of sound. It looks like a million shards bouncing as they hit the ground and coat the floor in clear, glittering death. And in every fragment, every jagged edge, Corona can see the faces of Cam, of Gideon, of Harrow, of them together, of the ways they’ve loved her, cared for her, been with her. 

And then it clicks that, no, this isn’t better. If she had just broken up with someone and it was Cam sitting in Ianthe’s place, Cam would put her hand over Cor’s, would stroke her thumb over the back of Corona’s hand and comfort her with soft nothings. If she had just broken up with someone and it was Gideon sitting in Ianthe’s place, Gideon would listen and Cor would see sorrow fill golden eyes at the hurt in Cor’s heart, and then she’d offer to take Cor to go walk Meatball to distract her from the pain. If she had just broken up with someone and it was Harrow sitting in Ianthe’s place, well, Cor suspects she wouldn’t have to say a thing and Harrow wouldn’t either, but she’d find Iago fed and her garden tended to and Harrow would sit her down with a book at the end of the day and read aloud to her. 

If she had just broken up with someone and it was anyone who cared about her in Ianthe’s place, she would be comforted, would be listened to. She would be able to talk about it. And Ianthe isn’t doing that.

“Are you even listening to me?” 

It startles Corona out of her realisation and she looks up from her mug into Ianthe’s face. Indignant. Unyielding. No, Corona has made a terrible decision, and she needs to have started fixing it yesterday.

“Actually, no. I have to go. Right now.” Corona stands and pushes her chair back. She unfolds her coat from her arm and drapes it over her shoulders, leaving the drink at the table as she heads for the door. 

“Corona!” Ianthe turns in utter shock.

“I’m so sorry.” Corona can’t tell whether it’s for her sister or for herself.

* * *

Corona turns on the engine of her car and scrolls through her phone, selecting a playlist that will blot out the intrusive thoughts. Music fills the inside of the vehicle and she rolls it out from where it's parked onto the street. Checking over her shoulder, she merges out onto the main road and falls mindlessly into the route back home, led by the speed of traffic.

She’s made a grave mistake. It’s been just over two weeks and Corona claws desperately at the hope that maybe she can still make good on this. That maybe it’s not too late. 

But first, how to fix this? She doesn’t want to make a grand gesture for the simple sake of it being grand. She wants it to be genuine too, to be something that reflects all the care, the warmth, the love they’ve given her. Cam, who loves with her words and the little touches. Gideon, who loves with her hands and the food she puts on the table. Harrow, who loves with her time and the small smile she saves just for them. 

What they had was good. What they had was amazing, and she doesn’t want it to disappear. She can fix this.

She checks over her shoulder and pulls off to the side of the road, putting the car in park. She picks up her phone, exhales in preparation, and then dials Palamedes’s number.

* * *

**6:07** _Would you like to come to my place for dinner? Thursday, instead of D &D._

It’s probably the strangest text Gideon’s ever gotten from Palamedes. Palamedes, who doesn’t cook, who doesn’t often host outside of D&D, who hasn’t texted her since he canceled last week’s session. But she’s bored, she’s lonely, and even if she wanted to manufacture an excuse, she has none. So she texts back that she’ll show and turns her phone over. 

“Are you alright?” 

Gideon looks up to see Marta leaning against the doorframe, concern written softly across her features. Judith stands behind her, their hands clasped loosely at their sides.

Gideon nods slowly. “Yeah. I’m going to Palamedes’s for dinner on Thursday.”

“Will you say hi to them for us?” Judith asks.

Gideon looks at the back of her phone and rubs her thumb over the case. “Okay.”

* * *

Palamedes puts the takeout pizza down on the dining room table. It’s a lot easier to make sure Cam and Harrow eat, now that Harrow’s moved back into the middle house. Meatball goes on his walks without protest again, though he still whines when he curls up in the empty living room on the dog bed Gideon installed.

“We’ll sort it out, boy,” he says, crouching down to rub the dog’s ears. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long.”

The front door closes, the kind of quiet impact that Palamedes knows means Cam’s home. He straightens up and brushes the fur off his hands. There’s dog hair on his trousers. 

“I smell pizza,” Cam says, unhooking her bra as she pads into the dining room on stocking feet. “Where’s Harrow?” 

“I haven’t seen her,” says Palamedes. “She must be upstairs?”

“Be right back.” Cam forces a smile. It’s still restrained, but it’s a lot better than the rictus she’d given him after the D&D session that wasn’t.

She heads up the stairs, and he goes to wash his hands.

* * *

Harrow’s curled up in Gideon’s bed, face mashed into Gideon’s pillow, clutching a second pillow to her chest. It’s been a week. There’s no possible way the linens still smell like Gideon. But Harrow looks peaceful, and Cam is loath to disturb her.

She takes the moment to change into yoga pants and heads back down the stairs to where Palamedes is waiting for her. He’s put plates on the table, filled tall glasses with water.

To join him, she scoops a slice loaded with veggies onto her plate. “Harrow’s sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her.” 

Palamedes nods, in sympathy for something Cam can’t discern. “Nightmares?”

“What do you mean?”

His brows wing up. He whips his glasses off to cover up the reaction, but she’s known him for too long. 

She presses. “Palamedes, tell me.”

“She has nightmares. I thought you knew.” He opens his jaw until the line of his mandible is at an absolutely absurd angle, and takes an enormous bite of his slice, forestalling further questions.

It’s an opportunity to think. Gideon’s mentioned having to soothe Harrow back to sleep once or twice, but it’s been months. “Not recently,” Cam says. “Or, anyway, she hasn’t woken me up.” 

Palamedes chews thoughtfully. “Gideon is good for her.”

“They’re good for each other.” Cam’s surprised to find that she’s finished her slice too.

He pushes his plate away, conceding the point. It’s more than he usually eats in a single sitting, Cam notes. “Would you and Harrow like to come over for dinner on Thursday?” he asks abruptly.

It’s not the same as D&D, but Cam doesn’t know what she could do with another Thursday alone in her house. Or-- not alone, this time, but it will still be better to get out. “I’ll talk to Harrow,” she says, knowing that Palamedes knows that means yes.

* * *

The house smells incredible when Palamedes opens the door. “Welcome, welcome,” he says, pushing his glasses up. Weirdly enough, they stay up for a full five seconds before sliding back down. 

“I, uh, brought wine.” Gideon holds up the bottle and Palamedes takes it, looking a little confused as to what to do. That’s fine by Gideon, she doesn’t know her wines very well so at least he won’t judge her for her last-minute liquor store purchase.

“The others are here, come, come.” He closes the door behind her and ambles off towards the dining room.

“The others?” It’s clear who ‘the others’ refers to the moment Gideon rounds the corner. Cam’s looking at her from her seat at the table, and next to her, Harrow refuses to meet her eyes. Gideon looks to Palamedes who is putting the wine bottle next to two others. “Palamedes...”

“Sit, please.” He pulls the chair beside his seat out, and Gideon sits down across from Cam. “Hey,” she says, flashing a weak smile.

Cam smiles back. “Hey. It’s been a while.”

Gideon nods, looking down at her lap. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I needed... space.”

She can see Cam nod back. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Okay” is perhaps a bit of a stretch, but then Palamedes comes out of the kitchen with a plate of little sausage rolls and sets it at the center of the table. “I’m just putting the last touches together in the kitchen. Please, enjoy.”

Gideon eyes them a little suspiciously. Since when does Palamedes work with phyllo? Still, the gesture is kind and despite the awkwardness, it’s nice to be with her people again. Gideon sets the thought aside in favor of a bite of the pastry. Oh, it’s good, and even Harrow can’t hold back the slight eyebrow raise.

“Well done,” Cam says, eyes bright with surprised delight. “I didn’t know you dabbled in pastry-making.”

Palamedes shrugs, heading back into the kitchen. “The internet has more things than just academic journals, apparently. Appalling.”

Gideon holds back a snort of laughter and when she looks back across the table, Harrow is smiling a little as well. “Don’t choke, Griddle.”

Gideon smiles wider.

* * *

The conversation flows better after the first glass of wine, after the initial weirdness has passed, and by the time their dessert plates are empty, Gideon’s leaning back against the chair, feeling warm and content and relaxed, and it appears that Cam and Harrow feel similarly. She looks across the table to Palamedes. He’s pecked at his food like a bird all evening per usual, but even he looks pleased. “Hey, thanks for having us. Can we help with the cleanup?”

Palamedes startles out of his thoughts. “Oh-- oh, no, I’ll do it. There’s something the three of you have to do.”

Gideon sits up straighter, brow creasing. Is this the other shoe about to drop? “What is it?”

Palamedes reaches for Gideon’s dessert plate and lifts it up, tugging something off that’s been stuck onto the bottom. He hands it to Gideon, and then takes the plate and begins stacking the rest of the flatware. “There’s one for each of you. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go start on the dishes.”

Gideon uses her pocket knife to open the envelope neatly at the top before pulling out its contents. _Dear Gideon_ , it says in Corona’s loopy handwriting. Gideon’s chest seizes.

“Oh, Cor...”

* * *

Harrow folds the letter back into the envelope very carefully and holds it between her hands. It’s nice paper.

“Excuse me,” Cam says, getting up slowly from her chair. She takes the letter and walks to the living room, silent. 

Gideon flips the note in her hands, flips it back, reads it again in silence. It’s quiet, save the sound of paper quietly rustling, and Harrow clears her throat.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” she announces, and leaves the letter at the table. She’s lived here for quite some time, she knows exactly where the bathroom is. She doesn’t walk to the bathroom. 

She’s known for a while that the four of them weren’t the only ones in the house. There’s just enough of an angle from her place at the dinner table to see into the nook of the kitchen and she had spied an extra pair of shoes there. That, and Palamedes sent her on a convenient expedition to retrieve groceries in the hours before dinner. So, she’s not at all surprised when she rounds the corner into the den where she thought she saw the slightest bit of movement early on that evening, and sees Corona, crunching herself into the scant corner between the couch and the wall.

“Hello, Corona.”

Corona looks up. She looks _exhausted_ but there’s the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “Harrow.”

Harrow doesn’t speak, resting her hand on Corona’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Harrow.”

Harrow kneels down beside her. “Can I hug you?” When Corona nods, Harrow wraps her up in her arms and rests her chin on Corona’s shoulder. It’s a little awkward, cramped together on the floor, but Corona’s shoulders loosen at the touch and Harrow breathes her own silent sigh of relief.

“Harrow?” Corona’s looking up at her with wet eyes. Harrow riffles through her vest pockets and produces a little packet of tissues for her. “The others...”

“They’re here, just outside,” Harrow assures her. “They’ll find us.” 

Sure enough, there’s sound down coming towards the den ten minutes later. Harrow pokes her head out to look, and Cam and Gideon are both making their way there, Cam wiping at the corners of her eyes quickly.

Gideon sees Corona first and she smiles gently. “Hey. Was that you who made dinner tonight?”

Corona nods silently.

“It was really good, thank you.”

Corona giggles and she sounds congested. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I fucked up. I should have-- I shouldn’t--” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Cor,” Cam whispers, and Corona bursts into tears again.

Cam flings herself onto the ground nearby, her lithe dancer’s legs folding themselves up under her. Gideon follows at a more sedate pace, lowering herself hesitantly to the ground as if she’s still not sure of her welcome. They all wrap each other up in this awkward corner of the room that’s too small for one of them, let alone all four, and let Cor sob and sob until her hiccuping breaths quieten and her shoulders stop shaking so hard.

Gideon lets go first. “We should talk. We need to talk. But I think we should help Palamedes with the dishes first.”

Corona giggles, wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, yeah we should. I use a lot of dishes.”

Gideon nods emphatically, drawing a laugh from Cor. “You really do.”

They untangle from each other, stretching out as they come to their feet, and Harrow watches them file out of the room one by one. Corona lingers, looking all the part like she’s nervous to try and rejoin them. 

Harrow turns at the door and offers her hand. “Coming?”

Cor smiles, and it’s fond, it’s warm, it’s right. “Of course.”


	30. S: Holidays Together

It’s the screaming that wakes Cam up. She leaves Corona sleeping, darts out of bed, and tears down the hall.

Harrow has wadded the sheets around herself. When Cam goes to sit by her, they’re clammy with sweat. “She’s gone,” says Harrow.

“She’s not gone,” says Cam, pulling Harrow gently to her feet so she can start stripping the bed. None of her girlfriends are going to sleep on gross sheets. They can do laundry in the morning. “She’s probably just in the bathroom.”

To prove it, she swings the mostly-shut door open, revealing the toilet (lid closed), shower stall (empty), and sink (off).

Gideon is not in the bathroom. 

Cam skips the last three steps on the way downstairs, and Harrow follows her, belting a thick robe over her damp nightgown. It’s going to take some doing to get Harrow to change before they all go back to sleep, but the first step is finding Gideon.

It doesn’t end up taking a lot of work. Gideon’s sleeping on the couch, a great lumpy mass under a lap throw. Light coming in the bay window illuminates her red hair like a beacon. Meatball, who isn’t allowed on the couch and doesn’t fit in anyone’s lap, is sleeping on the couch in her lap. Her hand rests on the dog’s head. 

Cam shakes Gideon gently awake. “Why are you sleeping on the couch?” she asks, because she can feel Harrow at her elbow, readying a verbal jab.

“I just--” Gideon rouses, dislodging the dog, who slinks off to curl in his bed, looking to avoid a stern reprimand.

“Come upstairs,” suggests Cam, hoping to avoid waking Corona, but it’s too late, because she hears footsteps on the stairs. 

“Cam?” Corona steps into the living room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She’s naked, just the way Cam left her, glorious in the moonlight, comprehension dawning in her eyes as she takes in the scene. “Gideon? Harrow? What’s going on?”

“You don’t need to all get up for me,” says Gideon, setting the blanket aside and sitting up. “I’m fine. I just needed to think, and then I fell asleep. It’s nothing.” Gideon is a very bad liar. 

Cam elbows her way onto the couch and leans her head against Gideon’s shoulder. “What were you thinking about?” she asks pointedly. It’s only been a few days since the dinner they’d all had together. 

Gideon doesn’t say anything. She just rubs the edge of the blanket between her fingertips, as if they’ll all go away if she’s just quiet for long enough.

Corona settles onto Gideon’s other side, pressing her body naked against one of Gideon’s old hockey t-shirts, worn soft through a multitude of launderings. Even this extreme provocation doesn’t stir their girlfriend.

Harrow gives the three of them the beady eye, as if she’s considering making a play for Gideon’s lap. It’s something they’ve done before, but evidently that doesn’t suit Harrow’s purposes. She drops to her knees in front of Gideon, clutching at the skin just below the threadbare bottom hem of Gideon’s shorts. “Stay with us, Gideon. I cannot do this without you. Don’t leave us. Don’t leave me. I am undone without you."

This stirs a reaction. Gideon covers Harrow’s hands with her own, digging the pads of her fingers into the meat of her own legs. “It hurt so much.”

“I know,” says Harrow. “I’m sorry. Please come back to bed?”

“I--” Gideon’s golden eyes dart from wall to wall.

“All of us together?” suggests Corona, rounding her spine so she can tuck her chin onto Gideon’s shoulder. Cam’s queen isn’t quite large enough for all of them, but they can squash together if it’s important.

Gideon gives a shaky laugh. “All right,” she says.

“Harrow needs to change first,” says Cam firmly. It’s not Harrow’s fault she had a nightmare, but everyone will be happier if she gets out of her sweaty clothes before cuddling. The way Corona’s hand is sneaking down Gideon’s flank to her thigh means they might need to wash more than one set of sheets tomorrow. She can’t complain: the taut line of Gideon’s shoulders begins to relax, and it gives Cam hope.

If extra laundry is the first step on the path to heal this hurt, it’s a price worth paying. She’ll walk this road for however long it takes.

* * *

Ianthe’s footfalls echo down the hallway and Corona winces. She’s not eager for this confrontation, but she knows it’s inevitable. Dread rises in her chest with every step she hears, rising to a boiling pitch when her sister knocks on the doorframe.

Steeling herself, Corona puts the brush back in the bottle of nail polish. “Yes?”

“It’s an hour to the family Christmas party. You’re not dressed. Aren’t you coming?”

Corona looks down at her nails, wet and shimmering in the light of her desk lamp. “No, I’ve already sent my regrets. Aunt Mathilda sends her love, by the way.”

The temperature in the room plummets. “Oh. Something more important came up, then? More important than our _family_ , Coronabeth?”

Corona sighs. She’s heard it all before and she’s tired of it. “Ianthe, I’m not going to stand here and listen to this. You can be kind, or you can leave.”

“Someone’s feeling self-righteous,” Ianthe says. “I’m just stating the truth, but if you’d rather be with _other people_ then that’s fine by me. Enjoy your little... gathering.”

Pointedly, Corona takes the brush back out of the nail polish, painting a gold-flecked top-coat over the violet she’s done her nails in. “Goodbye, Ianthe.”

* * *

Cam’s working in the family room, looking out the windows facing the backyard, so she sees Corona heading towards them. She waves.

There’s a particular weight to the way Corona waves back, like something has hooked itself into her ribs and hung, intrusive and unwelcome, in her thoughts. It’s Ianthe. Cam knows the look well by now and she goes to the kitchen to open up the Dutch doors in the back. “Hey.” Corona’s expression is stricken, hurt written all across her face. “Oh, Cor. Come here, darling.”

Corona falls into her arms and Cam holds her there, the winter chill blowing through the open doors and into the warm, low-lit kitchen of the middle house.

“Here.” Cam walks Corona to a nearby chair and sits her down, before she goes to close the door. She returns and kneels down beside Cor, taking Cor’s hand in her own. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

Cor looks up at the ceiling, tears gathered at the corner of her eyes even as she tries not to let them fall. She breathes in, holds it, and breathes back out. “I don’t understand why she’s like this,” she says, voice shaking.

“None of us do. You’re wonderful.” Cam rubs her thumb over Cor’s knuckles. With her other hand, she pulls her phone out of her pocket and sends Harrow and Gideon an urgent text to come as quickly as they can. 

Cam rises up off the floor to gather Corona in her arms, and Corona sobs as she whispers soft nothings of comfort. “You’re wonderful, you’re wonderful.”

Gideon’s feet make a racket as she runs down the stairs, followed by the more even-paced sounds of Harrow’s footfalls. “Don’t _fall down the stairs_ , you buffoon,” says Harrow, her voice bouncing down the stairs behind Gideon.

A moment later, Gideon rounds the corner into the kitchen, eyes scanning before they rest on Cam and Corona. “Are you okay? Is everything--”

“Don’t overwhelm her.” Harrow appears behind Gideon in the doorway and pushes past. She comes to stand beside Cor’s chair, resting a hand on Cor’s shoulder. “You’re safe here.”

“Yes.” Cor closes her eyes and nods, exhaling loudly. “Yes, I am.”

Gideon turns to Cam. “Ianthe?”

Whatever look she sees in Cam’s eyes is enough to say everything. 

“I’ll go fight her for you,” Gideon blurts out. “Right now. You tell me, and I’ll punch the living daylights out of her.”

Corona laughs, sounding watery. Even Harrow, who usually rolls her eyes and flicks a finger at Gideon’s arm looks ready to commit murder for Cor. “N-no, it’s okay, but thank you,” Corona says through wet giggles. “Gods, it’s okay, I’ve told her to leave. She tried to pull a ‘family’ thing on me again, but I said I wasn’t going. I--” she laughs again, wiping at her eyes. “I said I wasn’t going.”

Cam nods, silent, giving Cor all the space in the world to speak.

Gideon isn’t quite as patient. “And?”

Cor swallows and smiles at her, lips quivering. “And it feels good. Like I’m choosing what _I_ want. Like I’m choosing who is worthy of my time and my energy. And they’re family, but _you’re_ all family too. And if Ianthe can’t see it, then she’s... then I hope she does one day because she’s missing out on so much.”

Cam tightens her arms. “I’m proud of you, and I’m so sorry it came to this.”

“But it’s done. It’s done. Because if Ianthe is going to make me pick between her and this? I’m choosing you. And Gideon. And Harrow. I’m choosing _us_.” Corona sniffles. Harrow hands her a tissue that she graciously accepts. “I didn’t realise just how much you were all a part of my life, a part of my joy, until I didn’t have you. I’m sorry.”

“What’s done is done. We have the here and now and we’re honored to have you with us.” Cam lets go and squeezes Cor’s hand gently.

Dabbing at the corners of her eyes, Cor says, “I’m sorry I tore you all apart. You’re all so good for each other. And I was ready to throw it all away... Cam, the time and care you’ve put into this, the way you look at me like I’m precious but not fragile. Harrow, the way you save a special kind of smile just for us, the way you speak with your actions, not just your words. And Gideon, I... I pulled apart the good things you had. I gave back the key you and Cam gave me, the one that means so much to you because it meant you were offering me a place in your life, in your home, in your heart. I’m so sorry. You’re all so important to me and I don’t like what I picture as my life without you all in it. I’m better for knowing all of you, for loving all of you.”

As if from a great distance, Gideon retrieves a small smile. “You’ll always have a key if you just ask.”

“Then, Gideon?” Corona asks, and Gideon nods in acknowledgement. “If you’re still offering, do you think I could have a key to your house?”

Gideon winks at her, the terrible sort that looks more like a very intentional blink than a wink, and then heads to the foyer of the house where the bowl of keys is. She returns with a key, painted violet and sparkling with gold fleck. It’s the same one Cor had given up, and Gideon saved it for her. It matches Cor’s nails again, Cam realises, and warmth blooms in her chest.

Cor takes the key and she beams up, face puffy from tears but still so perfect, still so wonderful, fully and marvelously Cor. 

* * *

It’s first thing on the last Sunday morning before Christmas. Gideon’s up because she always is, and Harrow is finishing her makeup for church, her vest hanging unbuttoned over her button-down.

It’s unusual for Corona to join them so early in the morning, but she’s there in the kitchen with her hair and makeup done, looking prepared for the day.

“You’re up early,” Harrow comments as she maneuvers around to get to the pot of coffee.

Corona hums in affirmation. She putters around with the toaster.

Harrow pours carefully into her mug and takes a contemplative sip. Maybe she just hasn't had enough coffee, but Corona's acting more squirrely than usual. She gets halfway through the mug, mulling it over. The coffee warms her body on the way down and it’s very nice indeed, but Corona's still acting squirrely. She thumbs through her mental file and comes up with something odd. "Corona, shouldn't you have left for church by now?"

Corona looks wistfully out the window. “Normally, yes. But I’ve been to the same one basically all my life, and Ianthe and the rest of my family will be there. Normally, that would be fine, but Ianthe and I...” she fades off into silence.

Harrow sets down her mug and nods. There’s an orange on the counter and she takes it in her hand. It will suffice for morning sustenance. “Do you want to come with me?"

“I don't want to impose. I can make myself scarce.”

Harrow takes a knife out of the drawer and peels the orange, slicing it into neat wedges. “As long as you’re okay with descending into a catacomb while the priests sing Gregorian chants around you.”

Corona’s face twists into one of equal utter confusion and amusement. “What?”

Harrow smiles and rolls her eyes, holding out the plate for Corona to take a slice. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

* * *

A few hours later, Cam hooks her heel up onto the seat of her kitchen chair, hugging her knee to her chest. “What’s the occasion?” 

Gideon usually pulls together an easy lunch after their Sunday morning workout, but today she’s pulled out all the stops. “I’m worried about Corona,” she says, stirring a pot that smells faintly of basil.

Feeling daring, Cam sneaks into the kitchen to steal a peek. Tomato soup, which means that Gideon’s broken into the freezer stash of soup base. They have _more_ than plenty, but it’s an extra step which isn’t usual. 

“I just don’t want her to leave again.” Cam’s glad she moved into the kitchen, because Gideon directs this remark at the block of cheese she’s slicing.

“No one is leaving,” says Cam, firmly.

Gideon slices a chunk out of the cheese and looks at it rather contemplatively. “It’s got to be hard? A whole new church.”

“You’re not a churchgoer.”

“I got dragged along for a while when I was a kid.” Gideon shrugs. “So many new faces can be overwhelming.”

Approaching carefully from behind, Cam reaches her arms around Gideon. It’s a hug, but she takes the knife out of Gideon’s hands first. “Come here,” she says.

“Cam, the sandwiches--”

“We can make grilled cheese when they’re back.” Cam tosses a dish towel over the cheese and turns the burner under the soup on to low.

It’s a testament to how fragile Gideon is feeling that she lets Cam lead her into the living room and press a video game controller into her hands.

She reaches back behind her to retrieve the novel she’s been reading and puts her feet in Gideon’s lap. “Talk if you want,” she says, “but stop fussing in the kitchen. I love you.”

Gideon squeezes the arch of Cam’s foot as the console powers on. “Thanks.”

* * *

Harrow’s sweet and dreamless sleep is disturbed early in the morning by movement against her flank. She grumbles into the sheets, pulling the covers up over her face. Beside her, Gideon mumbles out a soft ‘sorry’ and slides out from the bed. It’s cold now without Gideon pressed up against her and Harrow lets out another grumpy noise.

Gideon leans over and tucks the covers tightly around Harrow, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Sorry, get a little more sleep, babe.”

It’s not going to happen. With her personal space heater gone and her sleep broken, Harrow won’t be nodding off again, but it makes Gideon smile if she burrows a little more under the covers and lays there for a bit, enjoying the last of the trapped warmth under the covers while Gideon heads downstairs, probably to start breakfast.

It’s nice, nonetheless, to close her eyes and sink into the softness of Gideon’s mattress and wait out the sleep that still clings to her. Eventually, the morning chill of the slightly-ajar window stirs her once more from peaceful repose and she gets up. There are black fuzzy socks Gideon gave her last Christmas in the sock drawer and she pulls those on her bare feet to ward off the cold. Then, she spies one of Gideon’s holiday sweaters thrown over a chair. It’s the one Gideon wore during D&D the first December after they moved into the cul-de-sac, and it stirs a sense of nostalgia in her. Harrow puts it on. Stretching, she opens up the curtains, and then makes her way downstairs to the kitchen. 

Just as predicted, Gideon’s starting up a storm in the kitchen, the warm glow of the morning sun filtering through the trees and windows and dappling across the floor. Harrow leans against the fridge and watches Gideon set up the kitchen, pulling out bowls and knives and ingredients. She moves like water through the space, fluid and graceful, and Harrow gets lost in the dance-like footwork until a pair of red-and-green striped socks appear in her vision and Gideon clears her throat gently. 

“I need the fridge, can I put you on the counter?”

It’s entirely unnecessary. Harrow could just take a step back so Gideon can get whatever she needs, and that would be that. But it’s Gideon, with her strong arms and her careful hands and her excited eyes and her bedhead she still hasn’t tamed, so Harrow rolls her eyes dramatically, and nods. 

She doesn’t even attempt to hide the smile when Gideon hoists her from under the arms and onto the counter to sit. Gideon’s wearing a sweater that says ‘Welcome to the North Swole’ and Harrow huffs affectionately.

Gideon returns with a carton of eggs and an armful of vegetables Harrow could probably identify if she had some caffeine in her. Gideon puts her ingredients on the board, picks up a knife, puts it down again. Instead of cutting up vegetables, she pours Harrow a cup of coffee from the pot she’d started. “My liege,” she says, bowing when she presents the mug to Harrow.

Harrow snorts but takes the cup, raising the steaming hot liquid to her lips.

“Careful, onions,” Gideon says, and begins chopping. 

Harrow keeps herself tucked safely in the warmth of her coffee, her face hidden behind the mug. The calendar on the fridge has its days crossed out one by one and today’s day is circled in red. Christmas morning. An old song plays in her head and Harrow allows herself to rock side-to-side to the beat of it.

At some point without realizing it, she must have started to hum out the tune because Gideon’s humming the same tune as well. It’s off-key, three semitones down and slightly flat. But the realisation makes Harrow’s eyes widen and she sets down her mug to look at Gideon. She’s doing something with eggs in a pot of boiling water, with a skillet of potatoes going on the next burner.

The moment Harrow stops humming, Gideon looks up with a smile. “You sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” she says. “Oh hey, nice sweater.”

Harrow looks down and smiles. It says ‘Merry Liftmas’ because Gideon is so terribly predictable. The whole exchange warms her from her socked feet to the tip of her nose. “I’m going to go wake Cam and Cor,” she says.

Gideon nods and leans in for a quick kiss before Harrow hops off the counter. “Don’t be too long, breakfast is almost ready.”

* * *

Truth be told, Cam’s been on and off sleeping for the past few hours. She was up at the time her silenced alarm usually goes off, woke again at first light, and woke once more when Gideon and Harrow got out of bed. But it’s Christmas morning, damn it, and she can let herself sleep in a little. It also helps that her calf is trapped under Corona’s leg and she has no intention of waking up her girlfriend. Instead, she lays there after her body tells her she’s not going back to sleep and she watches Cor slumber, blonde hair splayed out across the pillows in a halo of gold.

And then she smells burning. 

Closing her eyes, she sighs and reaches down to try and move Cor’s leg off of her own. It’s probably Gideon trying to handle too many things at once again. If she had to guess? Probably the French toast. Gideon always forgets just how quickly they’re done.

“Mmph?” Cor makes a noise and her nose scrunches up before her eyes open. “Mmph.”

Cam smiles, instantly melting at the sleepy look on Cor’s face. “Good morning.”

Cor sighs dreamily and rolls over onto her back, stretching out. “Hi,” she mumbles, reaching her arms over her head. It’s lovely in a way Cam can’t even begin to express and she’s suddenly glad for the sheets because if she’s going to keep the house from burning down, she does have to get out of bed.

“Something’s burning downstairs,” Cam says as she climbs over Cor to get out of bed, dropping a kiss on her lips on the way.

“Oh?” Cor sits up and the sheets fall away. Cam makes a valiant effort to look away and shuffles her feet into slippers. It doesn’t need to be fancy, she probably just needs to stand there and hold whatever Gideon needs her to hold while she tries to salvage the toast.

“Averting disaster, be right back,” Cam laughs and leans over for one more kiss before disappearing out of the bedroom.

“Superhero,” she hears Cor say and Cam is beaming all the way down the stairs.

Harrow’s on her way up and she nods. “It’s the hash browns.”

“Close,” Cam sighs. “Cor’s up, I think. Hey, nice sweater.” The material cuts off at Harrow’s thighs and she winks a little. Harrow rolls her eyes. 

“Go help.”

It turns out that maybe the better course of action would be not to help at all. Gideon’s elbows are out and she’s a flurry of movement in the kitchen, one hand on the food processor, one hand splitting time between the bottle of olive oil and the skillet. Cam’s attempted to help in this sort of situation before. Some things only take one mistake to learn.

Behind her, Cor materializes, dressed in a fluffy bathrobe. 

“I thought you were going to get some more sleep.” Cam says.

Cor shakes her head and holds out a hand. “Hair tie?”

Cam slips the hair tie off her wrist and watches Cor bundle her long hair into a ponytail and walk into the kitchen warzone. She takes over with the Hollandaise sauce, shooing Gideon away to watch over the hash browns while the sounds of the food processor fills the room. 

Harrow apparates at Cam’s elbow and she hands Cam her mug of coffee. It’s a little darker than she’d normally like it, but Cam takes a sip anyways and hands it back, smiling. 

With Corona’s help, breakfast prep goes quickly and smoothly. Corona uses too many bowls, of course, but she also moves smoothly around Gideon, clear from the blast radius of the elbows, and they compliment each other in such a way. There’s way too much food as usual, but Gideon is beaming and Cor looks so utterly pleased with the food they bring to the table. 

“Oh,” she says, looking down at her robe once the table is set. “Hold on, I’ve forgotten something.” She bolts upstairs and returns ten minutes later in a cherry red capelet that goes with an entirely too short skirt for either decency or this weather. Her necklace is a strand of battery-powered miniature Christmas lights, with the largest bulb dangling suggestively to cast a red glow onto her cleavage. Cam stares. “Here.”

Cam reaches out for the folded material Cor holds out and unfolds it to reveal a sweater of her own. The image is of a patently caricaturish Santa Clause in court dress with the words ‘Probably Clause’ in the background. It’s tacky. It’s terrible. She loves it.

They gather around the table, each taking her own spot. It’s the same pattern they use for D&D, the one they’d used ever since shortly after Gork’s close call. Cam and Cor sit on one side, Harrow and Gideon on the other. It means _home_ , almost more than the simple and profound act of sharing a meal.

* * *

"Merry Christmas, and happy holidays," Corona says when most of their plates are cleared. There's still so much food left on the table, but it means Gideon will have leftovers for breakfast for the next few days and she has no complaints.

"Merry Christmas," Harrow replies, lifting her glass of mimosa. "To another year."

Gideon beams and sneaks her hand under the table with a bit of bacon for Meatball. Everyone hears the thumping of his tail. No one tries to reprimand him. "To us."

"To us," Cam echoes, lifting her glass as well. At her feet, Meatball barks and they all share a laugh around the table.

"Yeah, to you too, Meatball," Gideon reassures him.

Harrow leans over, bumping her shoulder into Gideon’s. “I have something for you.”

It catches Gideon flatfooted and she panics. She’s forgotten presents. “I-- forgot. Entirely. I’m sorry.”

Harrow shrugs, nonchalant. “You were busy. It was a stressful time.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Gideon suggests.

“This is a present for me too, you buffoon.” Harrow grabs Gideon by the wrist and Gideon waggles her eyebrows exaggeratedly at Cam and Cor. “You can come up too,” Harrow says, and she’s pulling Gideon upstairs.

They head into the spare room that’s meant to be Gideon’s office. It functions more as a storage room, but it’s Gideon’s nonetheless.

There is an extremely conspicuous black sheet draped over something bulky that has many corners. Someone has put a large red bow on top of it.

“Harrow, you didn’t have to.”

“I really did,” says Harrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “Go on.”

Gideon pulls the sheet away. It’s a pair of nightstands, rendered in beautiful joinery and finished to a rich and lustrous sheen. Speechless, Gideon runs her hands over the joints, the sides, the drawers. She pulls one out, and it slides smoothly. Their initials-- all four sets-- are burned into the inside of the drawer where the maker’s mark would normally go. Emotion swells as she pushes the drawer back in.

“I got sick of you knocking my glass of water off your rickety excuse for a bedside table,” says Harrow. “It’s only practical.”

“Actually, I got you something too,” says Cam. “It’s not much.” She ducks into the hallway and reappears a moment later with an envelope.

“Cam,” Gideon protests, but she’s already lifting the flap. It’s adoption paperwork for Meatball, with both their names on it.

“All it needs is your signature,” Cam says. “I only wish they’d let me put all our names on it, but if you’d like--”

“Of course I want. There’s someone we need here to celebrate.” Gideon’s cheeks hurt with smiling. “Meatball!” she calls down the stairs.

His paws thump loudly, nails skittering on the hardwood, and he skids as he takes the turn into the junk room hard. Gideon crouches down to scratch behind his ears. “You’re family, now, too. Forever.”

Meatball pants and barks loudly at the others. Gideon looks up, and surrounding her are her girlfriends and their dog, in her house, in the place she’s made for herself. It feels like home.

* * *

By the time it’s dark, Gideon’s drowsy on the sofa, and Cor looks like she might not be too far behind her, because Cam’s stroking her hair in the way that always relaxes them both. If everyone falls asleep, they’ll trap Harrow in her place, and she’ll wake up with a sore neck.

Harrow squirms out of her vest, lobs it across the room. It doesn’t make it far. She ignores that and starts in on the buttons of her shirt.

Underneath, she’s wearing  _ color _ . Nothing bright, of course. The undergarment is delicate, designed with a subtle pattern, pine trees festooned with burgundy lights against a dark starry sky.

Gideon comes back awake immediately, rousing Cor in the process. “You said you didn’t like the  secularization of the season .”

“I don’t,” says Harrow, trying to get her shirt off without accidentally dislocating her shoulder. Cam leans in to help. “But, for the people I love, I can make exceptions.”


	31. Epilogue: The Pool Scene

It's not really a barbecue, not when it's just the five of them. Gideon hasn't even bothered to fire up the grill yet; she has chicken skewers marinating for dinner, but they all ate after their Saturday workout. No one will be hungry again for at least another few hours.

Even Harrow joins them in the gym now, though today she disappeared immediately after Cam had called a stop. She claimed she needed to shower, as if she doesn't co-opt Gideon's bathroom for hours every week.

Instead of pressing the issue-- usually, a fruitless endeavor-- Gideon sluices herself off and changes into swim trunks. Cor's already in the pool; she still likes swimming laps better than any other form of exercise. Gideon settles into the shallow end with Cam. They've taught her to swim, but she's still not fully comfortable in the water, even on a scorcher like today.

The water is cool on her skin, and watching Corona finish out her laps is no hardship. There’s a thoughtful expression on Cam's face that means Cam's developing a plan for later. Gideon leaves her to it. She’s grateful to be along for the ride.

Eventually, Cam opens her novel, and Gideon takes the moment to just appreciate the scene: Corona swimming, Cam reading, the goats browsing happily in their expanded enclosure, currently set up behind the chicken coop.

(When Ianthe moved out, one of the first things Corona did was adopt another goat. "His name is Rodrigo," Corona had said, clipping the bejewelled harness into place over his back. “Goats are herd animals, so this should improve Iago’s mood.” At the time, Gideon hadn’t thought it would work.

Cam had represented Corona when Corona bought out Ianthe's share in their co-owned house. Apparently, when they were drawing up the paperwork, Corona had said: "I'm sorry to see you go. You'll always have a home here." But she'd come home with her spine held a little straighter, laughed a little more easily, and the next day, the new goat had moved in.

That had been sometime in February. Gideon remembers the night they spent in Corona's bed to celebrate frequently, especially when she's alone in her room because Harrow is working late.

Gideon had made plans to expand Iago's pen accordingly, and sectioned off a piece of the yard to plant new bushes in. She can propagate them in the greenhouse Palamedes wants her to build for his garden experiments, a project she can't wait to dig her hands into, not least because he's bankrolling the thing. She's always wanted to work with glass like this; it's just never seemed practical. It's taken her all the years she's known him to figure it out, but this is how he shows that he loves them. Weird, but okay.

She goes over the plans with him, and he blinks owlishly over his glasses. "It looks fine to me," he says at last. "It's not my area of expertise."

"I love you, too," she says.

He rubs non-existent smudges off the lenses. "Well," he says, peering through the window into the backyard. "I look forward to applying rigor to the gardening process."

"Stay out of my tomatoes, Sextus," says Gideon, who has learned a thing or two about that particular look.)

Palamedes isn’t messing with her tomatoes today, though. He's laid out his D&D books and weighted down his binders with paperweights in the shade of the pavilion. After months of teenaged begging, they've finally relented and have invited Jeannemary and Isaac to join their game. It'll be good to give Magnus and Abigail the chance to have a date night, and Gideon is looking forward to playing with the kids. They've already matured so much in the year and change she's known them.

Cor finishes her laps and shakes water away from her face. Her hair hangs down her back in leaden hanks. "Where's Harrow?" She settles in next to Cam, and their legs twine together under the water.

Gideon has been wondering that, too. It's been a solid two hours post-workout now. Gideon is on the verge of asking Cam and Cor if she needs to go fish her out of her library, when, at long last, a figure emerges from the Sextus-Nonagesimus household.

Gideon recognizes the hat before she recognizes their girlfriend. It's not her fault. She's never seen Harrow in a bikini before.

It's black-- of course it is-- but it's tiny, bare triangles of fabric held together with string. Gideon heaves herself urgently out of the pool to get a better look.

The corners of Harrow's mouth curl up as the water caught in the pockets of Gideon's swim trunks pours down her legs. "Hello, Griddle," she says, and crosses past Gideon to lower herself slowly into the water. It gives Gideon plenty of time to plunk down on the edge of the pool and watch Harrow's descent into the water, the silky-smooth surface of her legs barely making a splash at all. The water is still cold, and her nipples come to peaks, making the piercings visible underneath the fabric. Barbells today, the ones with the biggest skulls on the end, which means Harrow chose them to show.

Gideon knows this game, knows that Harrow will try a new thing and pretend that it's not momentous because she's terrified that it will go wrong. But, even if the words are still hard for her, Harrow knows how to communicate. She stretches languorously, a move copied shamelessly from Corona.

"You shaved," Gideon says, almost before the thought finishes forming in her head. Her brain is overheated from the way Harrow’s tugging her down into the water so that she can press against her, wet bodies sliding slick together until Harrow locks into place against Gideon’s side.

"Not quite everywhere," says Harrow. "Maybe I'll show you later."

It's not quite a promise, and Gideon is about to inquire about what she can do to make sure she gets to find out exactly what Harrow shaved-- everything she can see; even the treasure trail is gone, which is absolutely a shame-- but she's interrupted by a slobbering dog head. "Meatball," she says instead, shoving his head away, "knock it off."

Harrow sighs and adjusts the hat on her head ruefully. "He just wants to play. Go get your tennis ball, Meatball. Go!" He races off, and Harrow smiles ruefully. "It's the hat. I knew I should have worn something different."

"You definitely should not have worn something different," Gideon reassures her. The hat-and-bikini combo works, and Meatball probably needs the play.

The brim of the sun hat mashes up against her chin as Harrow tips her head against Gideon’s shoulder, and Gideon finds herself pressed into service. She throws the tennis ball again and again for the benefit of the dog.

It’s a blissful hour or so later when her shoulders start to ache in earnest. She’s starting to think longingly about those skewers, as reluctant as she is to oust Harrow from where she’s curled.

But Harrow will still be there after they’ve all eaten. Even though none of them have put words to it, Cam’s speculative expression combined with Corona’s wicked smirk mean they’re almost certainly going to have an entertaining evening ahead of them. Cam will share her plan when she’s ready and not a moment before. Gideon can wait, especially because there are skewers to grill.

She’d thought she’d had high hopes when she’d agreed to move in with Cam, those years ago. This is so much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild few months working on this fic. Writing has been a bright spot in a weird summer (understatement), and I'm so thankful to my co-author for putting up with me, to everyone in the Locked Tomb Discord server who sold me on 4gfs in the first place, and to all of you for reading. Go safe, stay well.
> 
> Love,  
> JP
> 
> As with all things, change is necessary. Appreciated what I learned here and the ways I've grown, and the series I figure is in good hands. My hope is that this fic brought joy to someone somewhere. So long as that happened, count me content as I close the chapter on this.
> 
> See ya on the flip side,  
> BH


End file.
